


Like A Polaroid

by c3mf



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M, Modeling, Photography, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

Martin actually contemplated not picking up his phone when he saw it was Carolyn. It was his day off, she knew that, so any flight she booked after the fact really wasn’t his problem. By the third ring, his resolve crumbled and he answered only to be told quite bluntly that he had an appointment which he was absolutely not to be late for.

“Are you terribly worried about my punctuality, Carolyn?” he asked, and couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Because I so often make it my priority to avoid any and all responsibility when we have a job.”

“Spend long enough with Douglas and I’ve no doubt you’ll adopt his bad habits.”

“Why wouldn’t spending time with me let Douglas pick up some _good_ habits?”

“Martin,” Carolyn said evenly. “This is _Douglas_ we’re talking about. The only habits he has are bad and worst. Spending time with you does nothing more than highlight those things. Painfully. Now,” she said, and from her tone he knew it wasn’t worth arguing. “Airfield. One Hour. Are we clear?”

He sighed. “Yes, Carolyn.” Cheerlessly, he rang off and packed his things.

An hour later he still wasn’t particularly enthused with being called to the airfield on his day off, especially with it being a last minute standby. He did have more important things to do than sit in a glorified shed _not_ flying a plane. Like attempting to make ends meets so he could make the rent and possibly have enough left over to fill his space in the cupboards with more than pasta and a congealing bottle of brown sauce. He wasn’t hopeful, but it was nice to have dreams. Or at least vague ideas that desperately wanted to pass themselves off as dreams.

Oh, honestly who was he kidding? The van business was rubbish (he hadn’t had a single client in over a month), the red zeros in his bank account were mocking him ( _constantly_ ), and the last thing he’d had to eat was one of the student’s ghastly attempts at soup (which in the end had the consistency of dishwater and tasted exclusively of pepper). The way things were going, spending his night at the airfield would be a respite. God, since when did sitting round _not_ getting paid to do _anything at all_ become a highlight of his life?

His mind helpfully supplied the word _pathetic_ , which he immediately and carefully squashed. With any luck, they would be airborne in twenty minutes. Well, not _his_ luck, obviously (he never relied on it really), but Douglas would be there and they could count on his luck at least. The world, after all, always did conspire to do wonderful things for Douglas Richardson.

_Speak of the Devil…_

The Lexus pulled up beside him with a quiet crunch of gravel. As soon as the engine cut off there was silence. No rumbling or rattling or the steady tick of the engine cooling which Martin could still hear behind him coming from his van.

“Evening,” Douglas said as he climbed from the car. He looked as pleased to be here as Martin felt, which probably meant he was furious. Oh, this would be a _lovely_ flight.

“Evening,” Martin replied. “What did Carolyn threaten you with this time?”

“Various things,” Douglas said, shouldering his bag. “None of which will stick. Something about spending the weekend in hell and dental floss, I’m not entirely sure. I stopped listening once she mentioned _work._ ” He glanced round. “Her car’s not here.”

Martin shrugged. “Arthur’s is. And the lights in the office are on so…”

Douglas pulled a face as he made his way to the portacabin. “Perhaps she’s being fashionably late.”

“Whose bad habits are rubbing off on whom?” Martin muttered under his breath.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a burst of unexpected noise came from the portacabin. A raised voice and a tinny warble that couldn’t be anything but music filtered through inadequate speakers.

Douglas made a displeased noise in the back of his throat and grimaced. “If I have to listen to another mangled monstrosity of something once resembling an actual song, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“I don’t think there is a court that would prosecute, honestly,” Martin said.

On the last cargo flight they’d had to endure nearly three hours of Arthur butchering everything from pop songs to opera. Martin wasn’t certain he could endure an encore performance. Not without some painkillers and an unhealthy supply of alcohol, at least. He still had horrible memories of karaoke in Tokyo that he hadn’t fully been able to supress yet.

The music swelled again and he tilted his head, concentrating. “Has he gotten better?”

“Only one way to find out.” Gingerly, Douglas opened the door. And paused. “No. Apparently, he hasn’t.”

The singing most assuredly did not belong to Arthur. Too high pitched and evenly balanced and… decidedly feminine. Unequivocally _not_ Carolyn. He leaned round Douglas to have a look and stared. _Definitely_ not Carolyn.

The woman to whom the voice belonged was dancing across the portacabin… well, dancing wasn’t quite right. Dancing implied timing, calculated movements, honed coordination… This was none of those things. The only word he could come up with was _ridiculous._ It was the sort of dance he had caught Caitlin doing when they were children, standing on her bed and singing into her hairbrush. It wasn’t something of elegance or something that required even a modicum of talent. It was downright silly. Which was probably why Arthur was curled over the desk practically choking with laughter.

“That’s not…” Martin’s mind couldn’t seem to supply the rest of that statement.

“Arthur? No, it appears not,” finished Douglas. The corners of his mouth were turned up, one brow arched inquisitively. “Though may I ask what gave it away? The height difference? The ability to carry a tune? Or was it perhaps the change of gender?”

Before Martin could formulate a response, Arthur straightened and gave them a startled but pleased look. “Hi, chaps!” he called, half-giggling, over the music.

The woman whirled round at Arthur’s words, promptly froze and proceeded to do a rather convincing impression of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. It lasted only a second before she lunged for the laptop on the table and clicked the music off mid-verse.

Douglas took that as his cue to finally step into the portacabin. Martin followed, shutting the door carefully behind them.

“Am I to understand we’re taking this entertaining little number airborne?” Douglas asked.

The woman gave a nervous little laugh, finger-combing her dark hair back into some semblance of order. Her cheeks were tinged the slightest pink, but she still managed to give Douglas a level look. Well, as level as one could be when craning one’s neck. She was a remarkably pale and tiny thing. Douglas practically towered over her.

“Sorry, I’m afraid not.” she said, a tad breathlessly. Her accent was short and clipped and unmistakably American. “What you walked in on was a solo project unfit for public consideration.” She smiled and offered her hand. “Dana Darby, nice to meet you.”

The amount of charm that Douglas oozed when he offered his own was enough to make Martin feel a bit sick. A subtle mix geniality and lasciviousness that never seemed to fail or backfire. _Ever._ “Douglas Richardson, charmed.”

“The First Officer,” she said. “Arthur’s told me stories about MJN.”

Douglas’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Has he?"

“I have a feeling I’ve only heard a choice few.”

“Doubtless. Though I’m curious to know just how adequately our dear steward conveyed the precise nature of MJN's misadventures without erroneously utilizing the word _brilliant._ ”

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I like what I see so far.”

“You’re clearly unfailingly polite.”

“I’m sensing an _or_ in the sentence.”

Douglas smiled beguilingly. “You are. But seeing as I value my employment, such as it is, I choose to keep any less than exemplary comments concerning this charmingly retro charter firm to myself.”

Laughing, she moved to offer her hand to Martin. “And you must be the Captain. Hello.”

Muscle memory and ingrained civility was what curled his hand around hers more than any conscious thought. “No, I’m the—oh.” The correction was automatic and rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. “I-I mean, yes. I am. The captain,” he managed. “M-Martin Crieff. L-lovely to meet you.” There was a flush creeping up his neck, hot and itchy under his collar. Another minute and the tips of his ears would go pink.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice at all. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain,” she said, and he had the strangest feeling she actually meant it.

Which was patently ridiculous. No one was ever pleased to meet him. Exasperated, tolerant, maybe, but never pleased. It wasn’t until Douglas cleared his throat that Martin noticed he hadn’t replied. He also realized he still had her hand in his, certainly longer than propriety called for, and jerked away. The flush he had just barely been holding off flooded his cheeks.

“A-and you,” he stammered finally, eyes pinned firmly on the floor.

“Delightful,” Douglas said, dropping into a vacant desk chair, and leveled Arthur with a look. “Now where has our fearless leader booked us for tonight? A happy little jaunt to the Ninth Circle? I seem to remember her mentioning an infernal holiday last we spoke.”

Arthur, however, remained oblivious, engrossed with the sketchpad in his lap. He ran his thumb over the page, smudging the graphite, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. If Martin had ever wondered at the kind of art Arthur was capable of his best guess would have been something impressionistic and widely interpretive. What was on the page, however, was a startlingly realistic illustration of what looked to be a polar bear.

Douglas absently scanned the assortment of loose papers strewn across the desk. They were all sketches of some kind. Some were heavily inked, stark contrasts of black and white; others were fully coloured and intricately shadowed. Douglas examined a photorealistic study of a human skeleton before placing it back among the pile.

“Arthur?” Douglas drawled.

“Mmm?” Arthur didn’t look up from his sketchpad.

“We do, in fact, have a job this evening, correct?”

Arthur nodded and swiped at a sliver of too-dark shadow on the underside of the polar bear's belly with the side of his pinky.

“And what, pray tell, is it exactly?”

Arthur blinked up at him. “Mum didn’t tell you?”

Dana stepped round Douglas and began to sort through the sketches, sliding them carefully into a sleek black portfolio. “Carolyn booked me took take photos,” she said. “For your company brochure. I’d assumed she’d picked a convenient time for all of you.”

"We're losing the Scottish cricketers?” lamented Douglas without any real feeling. “Tragedy upon tragedy."

"I saw those when Carolyn gave me examples of what she _didn't_ want.” She slid him a sidelong look. “Do I want to know what lead up to that?"

"The heat of Sahara desert and an overzealous attempt at debt collection by a Tunisian airfield manager."

Dana paused in her paper-shuffling to glance at him. "What?"

"Well, you see..."

“I’m sure Miss Darby doesn’t want to hear about that, Douglas,” Martin interrupted. Yes, his ears had definitely gone pink now. The blush burned brighter as three sets of eyes turned to him. “S-so, ehm… the photos. H-how should we… I mean, is there… is there a protocol to these things?”

“Well, first off, call me Dana,” she told him amiably. “Secondly, I had planned to take them on the plane itself. With the Captain’s permission, of course,” she added with a smile.

Martin’s spine snapped straight of its own accord. _His_ permission? For a moment he thought she might be teasing, but when it became obvious she was well and truly waiting for an answer he almost couldn’t find his voice.

“Yes,” he said finally, breath sticking in his throat. “Yes, of course.”

Arthur bounded to the door, grinning as he jingled a ring of keys from his fingers. “We’ll be on location, like when we did the safety video.”

Douglas grimaced as he climbed to his feet. “Yes, because we’re all so very desperate to relive that experience.”

“The only one who didn’t seem to enjoy it was you, Douglas. I mean—” The words died on Martin’s tongue at the dark glance Douglas cast at him. He could practically hear the warning _Think very carefully about how you want to finish this sentence._ The very last thing he needed was a repeat performance of Qikiqtarjuaq.

“N-not that it matters,” he finished lamely. “Inconsequential. I’ll… I’ll just help Arthur with GERTI, shall I?”

He slipped out after Arthur and wished for once he had done the less than responsible thing and not picked up his phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

Martin drummed his fingers against his knee and drew down a deep breath. He was in the flight deck with Douglas, waiting. How long did it take to set up a camera anyway? He could hear Arthur and Dana in the cabin, but not well enough to make out any words.

“Nervous?” Douglas asked slyly.

“No!” He responded far too quickly to be sincere, he knew. “I mean, why? It’s only a few photos. There’s absolutely nothing to be nervous about. Nothing at all. Not a thing.”

“Yes, of course not. Sir’s reasoning is so profoundly sound, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Martin kept his gaze fixedly on the flight instruments in front of him and curled his fingers round the control column. Calm breaths and aeronautical thoughts. He wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t as if he was going to be scrutinized and awkwardly immortalized forever on film… 

God, he hated photos. Memories of horrid school snapshots came rushing back. No matter what he did or how he dressed, it didn’t matter, the photos always came out dreadfully. There were ones with his hair standing on end or his face gone all splotchy, ones where he wasn’t facing the camera at all or ones taken mid-blink. There was even one spectacularly bad one that was just of his foot because he had managed to fall off the photographer’s stool. Simon and Caitlin had claimed that it was their favorite photo of him for _years_ , and always made sure it was prominently displayed somewhere in their parents’ house. 

No one had to tell him he wasn’t terribly photogenic. He _knew._ All the proof needed was tucked neatly in the family photo albums. 

“Martin,” Douglas said slowly. He sounded almost serious. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“If I am I’ll be sure to avoid you,” Martin snapped. Guilt promptly crowded up behind the anxiety, and he sighed. “Sorry. It’s just… I’m… Oh, nevermind.”

“You don’t like having your picture taken?” Douglas ventured.

“No.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Martin grumbled.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Martin turned to stare at him. “You’ve probably never had a horrible photo taken of you _ever._ ”

Douglas tilted his head back thoughtfully. “No, can’t say that I have. Is that what this is about then? Worried about having a horrible photo? And here I thought Sir had no vanity of which to speak.”

Martin scowled and looked back out at the airfield, watching the failing light. The sun had streaked everything in vibrant reds and oranges, casting stark silhouettes of the ATC tower and the hangars, fading gently into purple twilight. 

How long had they been at this now? It couldn’t possibly have been more than fifteen minutes, most likely even less. Time dribbled away like molasses through a straw. If he simply focused on not thinking about the time, he didn’t doubt it would progress normally. But he _was_ thinking about the time—he couldn’t help it. The longer he waited, the more his nerves frayed, and the slower the seconds seemed to pass. 

Suddenly, the prospect of holing himself up in his room so he could attempt to juggle the empty balance of his checkbook with the increasingly heavy weight of collection notices with their glaring red letters didn’t seem so bad.

The sound of a camera shutter went off behind him. 

Martin turned round before he could think better of it and was startled at the sharp and sudden, “No!” Dana lowered her camera and flapped her free hand emphatically at him. “No no no, don’t. Sorry. Just… Stay like that? Please.” 

Martin faced forward again slowly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Douglas had gone politely still as well. 

There was some shuffling from the flight deck door, muttered displeasure and something about a tri-pod, then she called, “Arthur, can you come here a sec? Hold this. Arm straight and still. Perfect.” 

Martin almost turned to look again, but froze when she ducked into his line of vision. With the sunset burning behind her, it painted her skin an astonishing shade of gold and made her wide eyes impossibly dark. She lifted a hand tentatively as if to touch him. “May I…?” 

He blinked. What…? Oh. _Oh._ Right. Photos. Posing. “Y-yes, okay,” he managed faintly.

She pressed her hand against the line of his jaw, her thumb resting lightly on his chin, barely there, her fingers fanning out over the column of his neck where he could already feel his pulse beginning to flutter. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to look. He didn’t dare meet her eyes. Instead his gaze settled on the delicate line of her collarbone and the shadows in the hollow of her throat. She leant closer, tilting his head just so. The shadows shifted with her movement, lengthened, and his eyes automatically followed the line of them to where they highlighted the swell of her breasts. He couldn’t have stared for more than a second or two, but it was enough to make his pulse jump and put a hitch in his breath. He hastily averted his eyes to stare out the windscreen, feeling himself go pink.

_Stupid stupid stupid._

She adjusted him a few seconds more, fingers skimming round to grip his chin just hard enough that he knew not to move, and her free hand came up to press against his right shoulder. 

“Dip your shoulder for me,” she said quietly and he did as he was told, letting her hand guide his shoulder down and stopping when her fingers tightened. “Just like that.” 

She pulled back to give him a onceover and he had the feeling that she wasn’t seeing him, but lines and angles and shadows, individual details rather than the whole. He wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing. Then she smiled at him, and he suddenly felt less an object, and right back to being human and awkward and very much him.

She tilted her head back approvingly. “Very commanding. Dignified.” She traced the line of him with her eyes. “The angle makes your neck look longer.”

“Is that really what the Captain needs to be longer?” quipped Douglas from behind her. “I would have thought that would have been his legs.”

Dana adjusting Martin’s cap on his head stopped him from making any comment.

“Now slimming,” she continued conversationally, “is a much more difficult effect to achieve.” She fixed Martin’s cap fractionally, carefully combing stray curls that were mussed in the process. “You're working to hide more as opposed to stretching less.” She appraised Martin one final time then turned to Douglas. “May I?”

“Of course,” Douglas said. 

Martin caught a brief glimpse of Douglas’s calculatedly blank face before it turned into another charming smile. Martin felt his own lips twitch in the ensuing silence, and contented himself with that fact that he now wasn’t the only one uncomfortable.

“Hold just like that,” Dana told him. 

Douglas remained carefully still while she leant first to one side then the other. Slowly, she backed away, gauging them both with a critical eye, until she leveled herself with Arthur, who was still obediently holding her camera out. 

“Thank you, Arthur. You’re the best assistant a girl could ask for.” She stepped under his arm and gingerly extracted the camera from his hand, her eyes locked on the screen. 

The shutter clicked once, twice, then once more and the flash went off. 

“Just a few more,” Dana said. The rhythmic click of the shutter sounded a few more times. “Okay. You guys are free to move. Thanks very much.”

Martin let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and let his shoulders settle into a more comfortable position. 

“Wow,” Arthur breathed. “That’s _brilliant!_ ”

Martin glanced back. Arthur was hovering behind Dana as she examined her camera screen, one arm snaked over her shoulder to point. 

“I like this one best,” he said. “It’s all glow-y and silhouette-y and nice.”

Her expression had gone soft, warm and infinitely pleased. “It is nice. Very candid. Intimate.” She paused then wrinkled her nose. “Not sure if it’s the best pick for a company advertisement though.”

“But it’s pretty,” Arthur insisted.

She only shook her head and leant back affectionately against his chest. Arthur wrapped her in an awkward one-armed hug and continued happily scrolling through the photos. 

Oh. _Oh._ Well, that explained everything. Well, _most_ everything. Arthur was surprisingly endearing and charismatic if given the chance. He didn’t charm women the way Douglas did (though Martin was sure no one else on _earth_ charmed women the way Douglas did), but his enthusiasm and sincerity certainly went a long ways. He had met Arthur's last girlfriend, Anja, a gorgeously statuesque woman with bluer than blue eyes and a simply angelic smile. It had bordered on ridiculous how taken they had been with one another.

As Arthur pointed out another photo Martin wondered if Arthur had had to do any real convincing to get Dana to spend her evening here. Probably not. His boyish charm and an eager “It’ll be _brilliant!_ ” would have been more than enough to do the trick. 

“Worrying about how horrible the photos turned out, Captain?” Douglas asked.

Martin straightened, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. He didn’t think he quite managed it though. “No,” he said. “Not at all. I’m sure they’re fine. Not horrible at all. They’re… fine.”

“Yes, convincing as always, but forgive me for wanting to find assurance in a much more substantial way.”

Martin felt his heart sink. _Oh no._ “Douglas, what—?”

But Douglas was already turning round to address Arthur and Dana. “Are we permitted to see?” he asked amiably. 

Dana blinked at them for half a second as if just remembering they were both still there. “Oh, yeah, sure, of course,” she said, slipping out of Arthur’s hug to hand Douglas the camera. 

Douglas flicked through them, and with each one Martin watched Douglas’s eyebrows climb in the vicinity of his hairline. “These are very good,” he said after a minute. “You certainly have an impressive talent.” He passed the camera to Martin with a look of genuine approval. “Why don’t you see what you think, Captain?”

 _Because I don’t already know how ridiculous I look._ Taking the camera from Douglas was very nearly tortuous. God, now he was going to have to look at them and fake a smile, politely _lie_ and say something pleasant yet still intentionally vague…

Only when he glanced at the camera screen, the carefully fabricated answers he had relied on during uncomfortable situations over the years dried up. The photo staring back at him couldn’t possibly be of him. He knew what he looked like in photos—the very few adult ones he had of himself—and he was never anything but rail-thin, all knees and elbows. (He had never been able to figure out how he managed to have such lanky, awkward limbs and not the height to go with them). The man in the photos was… well, _handsome._ Straight shoulders, arched neck, sharp jawline… he looked like a _proper_ Captain, someone who ran his flights with absolute authority and commanded respect from his crew. There certainly wasn’t even a hint of a man who suffered under the rule of a manic penny-pinching CEO and the taunts of a frustratingly smug co-pilot. It was all very… professional. 

So, naturally, it had to be a fluke. A trick of the light. He was half-drenched in shadows anyway, that had to be it. Shoddy lighting, faulty camera lens… 

Only when he flicked through the rest of the photos, they were much the same as the first, artfully shot with a stranger in the Captain’s seat wearing his face.

He handed the camera back without looking at her. “They’re… good,” he said, unable to think of anything else. “Quite good.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Would you mind if I took some more?”

Martin could see Douglas give her a winning smile out of the corner of his eye. “Not a bit,” Douglas said. “We’d be more than happy to oblige. Wouldn’t we, sir?”

“Y-yes, of course.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Arthur. “Can I be the tri-pod again?”

Dana just laughed and handed him the camera.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

Martin didn’t know how he let himself get talked into these things, honestly. (Well, it wasn’t so much talked into as it was Douglas accepting Arthur and Dana’s invitation for drinks and physically steering Martin towards his van.) 

He never had enough time off, and when he did he preferred to spend it in the sanctity of his own home. Yet here he was in full uniform crammed at a small table along one of the pub’s back walls. By all rights he should have been holed up in his dingy little attic room, working on his flight simulator, or at the very least buried in one of his tatty old paperbacks. (He had come to the conclusion that thinking about the bills he couldn’t pay only made him an agitated wreck, and he pointedly decided he wouldn’t spare them any more consideration than he absolutely had to. It was the best way to assure he stayed sane—well, relatively so, at least.)

He curled his fingers around his pint and tried very hard not to feel so distinctly out of place in his Captain’s stripes. Having Douglas in uniform as well was only a small comfort. (Douglas wouldn’t have cared if he had to parade up and down the high street completely naked he was so disgustingly self-assured.) He wasn't even halfway through his first drink. He couldn’t duck out now and not appear terribly rude. He could manage his discomfort long enough to finish his pint. Really, one drink. That wasn’t too difficult a task. 

Douglas was in the middle of recounting their last flight. They had had to shuttle around some ridiculously wealthy, ridiculously young businessman to various poker tournaments. _Poker tournaments._ Martin knew there was money to be made in gambling if you were lucky, but he couldn’t possibly imagine making a living from it. Too much chance everything could go bust. He had said as much in fact… and then had spent the rest of the trip being dismissed by their client entirely. He hadn’t meant to insult the man, truly, but when his numerous apologies had gone unnoticed he had left the rest of the customer relations to Douglas. 

It wasn’t their worst MJN story by far, but it certainly wasn’t the best. Martin knew how it went and he didn’t have anything to add—after all, he hadn’t been there for the most exciting bits. While Douglas and Arthur had eagerly accepted invitations to attend the tournaments as the man’s guests, Martin had stayed at the hotel and caught up on his reading. Not the most glamorous way to spend a trip, but it had suited him well enough. He would have ended up with less in his pockets then when he had started if he had tried his hand at gambling, so it was for the best. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. 

So he didn’t pay attention to Douglas words—as smug Douglas might be, Martin trusted him enough to keep the truly embarrassing bits strictly between themselves—and instead found himself watching Dana.

If he were being completely honest she wasn’t particularly stunning. (Not like Anja had been. Anja could have walked runways in Paris—and from what little Martin remembered of her, he was almost positive she did.) Dana’s beauty was a subtle thing. Dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin that made him seem ruddy in comparison. She was… delicately mundane. She was the girl across the hall you borrowed a cup of sugar from and tried to work up the nerve to talk to. (Not that Martin had ever had those sort of neighbors, or would ever have enough nerve to do more than stutter out a horribly embarrassing _“Thank you”_ if he did, but that wasn’t the point.) She was warm and friendly, fairly open as far as he could tell. It wasn’t very surprising that she and Arthur got on as well as they seemed to. 

She had her eyes politely and attentively fixed on Douglas and was biting her lip to keep from laughing, eyes crinkling with the effort, as she leant into Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur curled his arm round her, pulling her close, and grinned. 

Martin found himself smiling despite himself. He might not be lucky enough to be that close to someone, but if anyone deserved to be Arthur did. 

He let the conversation wash over him and stayed well into his second drink. He offered a few words to the conversation when prompted but otherwise was content to let Douglas do most of the talking. He was the better storyteller after all—Martin couldn’t manage a tale without stumbling over his words, or getting events out of order. Besides, with Douglas as the center of attention, it gave Martin less opportunity to embarrass himself, and God only knew it would be far too easy for him to manage that.

So Douglas enthralled Dana with stories of MJN’s various exploits. Arthur interjected every now and then about something he found particularly brilliant. Martin just smiled and replied with the least amount of syllables possible when either of them roped him into the conversation. By the end, Dana was tucked against Arthur’s side in complete stitches.

“I was right,” she said, straightening up and wiping at her eyes. “I had only heard a few choice stories.”

“Oh, we’ve just barely scratched the surface,” Douglas said. “Those were just from the past few months. There’s years-worth more to sift through.”

Dana just grinned and shook her head in quiet disbelief. She pulled her mobile from her pocket discreetly and blinked when she glanced at the screen. She wriggled out from under Arthur’s arm and proceeded to pull on her coat. “I did _not_ think it was this late. I’m sorry to cut and run like this. Maybe we could all do this again sometime?” 

Douglas politely offered his hand and one of his most alluring smiles. “We may have to hold you to that. I’m certain you must have equally horrific photography stories to share.”

Laughing, she turned to Martin. “Good night, Captain.”

Again, his body reacted before his brain could and he curled his fingers around hers. “Good night.” It was probably the longest sentence he had uttered all night. At least this time round, he remembered to end their handshake in an appropriate amount of time. Small favours.

“Thanks for tonight,” she told them as she squeezed passed Arthur. “You guys made my job easier than it has been in ages.” She ducked to kiss Arthur’s cheek and he pulled her into a quick hug. “It was nice to finally meet you both.” 

“Well,” Douglas said, when she had gone.

Martin knew that tone of voice all too well and wanted absolutely no part of whatever it was Douglas had planned—even if it was only a scheme to tease Arthur. 

“I think she had the right idea,” Martin said evenly and stood. “We have standby tomorrow. We all need a good night’s rest.” He grabbed his cap and offered his goodbyes before Douglas could protest. 

“Bye, Skip!” Arthur called cheerily.

Martin lifted a hand in farewell over his shoulder. Right. He would go home, make himself a cuppa, and decisively turn off his phone. He didn’t plan on answering it for at least a week—even if it _was_ Carolyn. She could bloody well leave him a message. (Even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t actually do it; it was far too petty, but the possibility of ignoring her if he so chose was comforting.) And maybe—just maybe—if the universe was kind and the stars aligned just right, there would actually be a flight tomorrow. He wasn’t going to hold out for it, but it gave him something to look forward to… and distracted him from the tiny niggling envy worming its way through his chest. 

He wasn’t remotely jealous of Arthur—he was _happy_ for him, really he was. The alcohol had made him maudlin, it always did, and, truth be told, he had been fairly miserably before his first pint. He pointedly dismissed all thoughts of the empty little room and cold, rumpled sheets waiting at home for him. MJN would have a job tomorrow, he would be flying again, and that was what mattered. He told himself that the whole drive home and stubbornly blinked the stinging bleariness from his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

The next morning Martin woke feeling sufficiently less lachrymose, if just a tad sick. The kitchen smelled deliciously of bacon when he came down. Lily was at the stove, spatula in hand. “Morning,” she told him without looking up.

“Morning,” he said. 

Something was wrong, though. No one but him was ever up this early. Lily cooked when she was upset. She had told him once that her parents owned a restaurant and she had grown up helping there, that working in the kitchen took her mind off things. Still he couldn’t stop his mouth from watering. His stomach knotted resentfully when his brain promptly reminded him that all he had in was pasta. 

Lily pulled down a plate, loaded it with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast, and shoved it into his hands. 

“Billy did _I-don’t-know-what_ and now we have sixteen dozen eggs in the fridge,” she said, before he could open his mouth. “It’ll be a waste if they go off, and then I’ll probably end up strangling him with his own bootlaces, so…” She pointed to the table then turned back to the stove.

Martin sat, murmured out a “Thank you” and dug in. It was humiliating begging off the students—certainly not one of his proudest moments—but he wasn’t about to argue when he didn’t have anything in. 

Besides, Lily _was_ right. It _would_ be a terrible waste. Left to their own devices Billy and the other boys would probably decide to do something decorative with the eggs instead. What had become known in the house as the Spaghetti Sauce Incident was still fresh in his mind. He had never bothered to ask how they had managed to get so much of it on the ceiling. He was probably safer not knowing. 

The kids were a good lot though—he had suffered through much worse—so occasionally he did some of the washing up that wasn’t his, or lent an ear when someone had a messy breakup, or stopped one of them from cracking their head on the stairs when they came home completely rat-arsed. If after that some things he knew he hadn’t bought mysteriously appeared in his spot in the cupboards, well… 

This wasn’t the first time they had made this sort of unspoken exchange and he doubted it would be the last.

He didn’t protest when Lily took his plate away to give him a second helping. They chatted for a bit about nothing in particular before they got to the heart of the problem—Lily’s mother had broken her foot, slipping in the kitchen of their family restaurant, and Lily was worried about her and about the possibility that she might have to end her term early and go home to help with things, despite her father’s reassurances that everything was just fine.

Martin offered what little consolation he could—if her father said things were all right, they probably were, and her parents wouldn’t want her to work herself up over nothing—and Lily listened to it all with a grateful smile. He said his goodbyes as the rest of the students trickled down and changed into his uniform, feeling more well-rested and well-fed than he had in weeks.

~*~

When Martin arrived at the airfield he was surprised to find he wasn’t the first one in. Arthur was huddled up in one of the desk chairs, sketchpad balanced across his knees. Carolyn’s office door was shut, just barely muffling her rather animated phone conversation. He glanced at the wall chart. Ah. MJN’s book-keeping was due. That would be the airfield manager Carolyn was arguing with then.

“Morning, Skip!” Arthur chirped. “Coffee?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just unfolded himself from the chair and popped the kettle on.

Martin settled himself at the desk. “How long has Carolyn been at… that?” He waved a vague hand at her office door.

“I dunno,” Arthur said. “When Mum got all shout-y the first time I stopped listening.”

Martin nodded in understanding. “Probably for the best.” 

He spent the next few minutes getting his things in order, pulled out one of his tatty paperbacks from his bag and shoved his bag under the desk at his feet. He laid out his logbook and paperwork to one side and glanced at the sketchpad Arthur had tossed in the middle of the desktop.

“I didn’t know you liked art, Arthur,” he hedged after a minute.

Arthur gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s fun. I tried to take up music once—Mum bought me a trombone for my birthday—but every time I played Snoopadoop would cry and hide under the sofa. Then I tried drawing and Snoopadoop didn’t hide, so Mum said I could take lessons if I wanted. I think she just liked it because it was quiet though.”

Martin studied the sketchpad. It was baffling. Arthur could barely manage to walk in a straight line most days (and that was with him being completely sober). How then could he manage enough control over a pencil to create a flawless rendering of his own back garden? Martin hadn’t been to Carolyn’s often, but he had gone enough to recognize the carefully trimmed trees and tended flower beds that could be seen from the French doors leading out onto the patio.

“Dad said I was rubbish.”

Martin glanced up at Arthur to find him studying his own work, his face contemplative and just a tad sombre. The expression was altogether wrong on Arthur and Martin felt himself go defensively prickly simply for Arthur’s sake.

“You’re really not though,” Martin told him quietly.

Arthur looked at him blankly for a second then broke out into an impossibly wide smile. “Oh, I know that now.” He handed Martin his cup of coffee and dropped into the other chair, slurping happily at his own mug. “I tried to draw GERTI a few times,” he said, pushing the sketchpad towards Martin. “They’re near the front. If you want to look.”

~*~

The rest of the morning passed unremarkably, in the quiet page-turning of a lackluster murder mystery and the quickly drawn sketches of sea lions in little hats, only broken by the occasional cup of fresh coffee. There had been nearly two full hours of relatively blissful silence before Douglas deigned to make an appearance.

“Morning,” Douglas greeted. He had the gall to practically swan into the office.

Martin glared at him over the top of his paperback. “Afternoon now, actually. You’re late.”

“Am I? Has GERTI decided to fly with one less pilot today?”

Martin gritted his teeth. “Standby is still a job, Douglas.” Did the man honestly think Martin _enjoyed_ getting up at the crack of dawn, having to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed, to huddle up in rickety plastic garden chairs and—when they actually _had_ a flight—fill out paperwork that wasn’t even his? (Granted, he didn’t actually _mind_ the paperwork— it didn’t involve much thought really—and getting out of bed this morning hadn’t been quite so difficult with the surprise breakfast he’d been given, but still.) 

Douglas ignored him, unsurprisingly, and slung his bag in the corner. “Did Carolyn bother to come in today, or shall we again mourn her absence and muddle through without her?”

Martin rolled his eyes and drank down the remainder of his now stone-cold coffee. “Locked in her office. She was on the phone all morning long.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps the clients have taken the brunt of her good humour.” Douglas paused and spared a glance at Arthur, who was still curled up in his chair, once again engrossed in his sketchpad. “Did you take out his batteries, Martin? I don’t think he’s so much as twitched since I got in.”

“My uncle has batteries,” Arthur chirped, without looking up. “To work his heart.” A second later his forehead wrinkled thoughtfully and he looked up at Douglas. “Does that make him part robot?”

“Mechanically supplemented, certainly.” Douglas tilted Arthur’s sketchpad back towards him with a finger and hummed approvingly. “Well done, Michelangelo. Do your impressive talents extend to making coffee?”

Grinning, Arthur bounded from the chair and set about to making a fresh pot. Douglas dropped into Arthur's seat and made himself comfortable.

Arthur was handing out fresh mugs of coffee when Carolyn stepped out of her office and gave them a long, considering look. 

“I trust all went well last night?” she asked evenly. Arthur seemed to instinctively know her inquiry didn’t extend to him and refilled the kettle, humming quietly off-key. 

“No,” Douglas said.

One of Carolyn’s brows rose dangerously. “No?”

Douglas leant back in his seat indolently and leveled Carolyn with a look of equally deceptive calm. “Yes. You see, I was told we had a last minute booking, and being the gracious soul I am, I abandoned my night off and dutifully reported to the airfield only to find that neither our esteemed leader nor the aforementioned job so vitally essential for the continued survival of MJN in attendance.”

Carolyn simply scowled and flapped a dismissive hand at him. “I don’t for a second care about your postponed night of self-prescribed decadence, Douglas.”

“No, I don’t expect you would. Though I am curious—when MJN can barely scrape together enough funds for our abominably catered meals and internationally substandard lodgings—how we could possibly afford a photographer.”

“Simple. The photos cost nothing.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you swindled another pathetic soul into working for you for free.”

“Certainly I won’t tell you,” Carolyn said. “I don’t have to tell you anything beyond _‘do your job’_ and _‘fly the plane’_.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Douglas spread his hands. “But really, how do you manage to manipulate even your own son’s girlfriends into submitting to your miserly ways?”

“Girlfriend?” Carolyn scoffed.

Douglas raised a curious brow. “Is she not?”

“Good lord, no. She’s his art tutor.” Douglas opened his mouth again, but Carolyn held up a forestalling hand. “I’m off to see the airfield manager about another ridiculous invoice. If you want your gossip, interrogate Arthur.”

Douglas’s smile was positively wolfish. “With pleasure.”

Martin winced in sympathy. He has witnessed that smile aimed at him often enough when Douglas thought there was something particularly worth teasing him over. Douglas was like an especially tenacious terrier. He refused to give up until he got precisely what he wanted.

“So,” Douglas began once Carolyn had gone. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us, Arthur?”

Arthur stared, wavering, his mug clutched in both hands. “I don’t know. Is there? Was I supposed to tell you something?”

“You could start with how you are, in fact, _not_ dating your art tutor,” Douglas suggested.

“Oh. Am I supposed to be?”

“Not as a strictly adhered to rule, no, but that was the general impression the two of you gave last night.”

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Did you think that as well, Skip?

An uncomfortable but insistent itch started between Martin’s shoulder blades and he shifted unsuccessfully to get rid of it. “A bit,” he said eventually, if only to stop Arthur’s staring.

“Oh, wow. That _is_ confusing. We’re not dating, though. We’re just really good friends.”

“So we saw,” Douglas smirked. “Do the two of you often spend your evenings at the airfield having clandestine photographic affairs? Secret yourselves away so she can hold you captive with her camera?”

“I’ve seen her want to do that actually,” Arthur said. “But no, she only does photography part-time. She teaches art at the Sixth Form for the rest. I took one of her classes—well, not really a class because I’m not still at school obviously, it was a summer hobby group, but she ran it and it was loads of fun. Maybe you could model for her, Skip!” Arthur grinned, bouncing on his heels in childish glee. “She really liked the ones she took of you yesterday, I could tell.”

“Yes, well…” Martin reshuffled paperwork that didn’t need reshuffling. He refused to acknowledge the sudden intrigued quirk to Douglas’s brow or the infuriatingly smug tilt to the corner of his mouth which invariably meant trouble. “It wouldn’t do for her not to like the photos she was hired to take.”

“Oh, no, not those ones, Skip. I meant the others.”

Martin froze. “What others?”

“Before we went to the pub,” Arthur said, as though it should have been obvious. “She took some when you were getting in your van. They were _really_ nice. I told her she should take some more, but she said she couldn’t because you’d already got in your van and if she asked it would make her sound all stalker-y, only she isn’t. She’s really nice and friendly and she wouldn’t stalk you at all. I think you should, Skip. The modelling, I mean. Dana’s always looking for new people to take pictures of and she might even pay you! She’s done that before.”

“Congratulations, Sir.” Douglas didn’t even attempt to keep the taunt from his voice and flashed Martin a smile that was all teeth. “With a single meeting you’ve managed to suppress your atrocious luck long enough to find yourself an admirer _and_ another source of income. Well done.”

The itch between Martin’s shoulders persisted and he felt himself go frustratingly pink. “Shut up, Douglas.” He resolutely buried himself in his paperback.

Encouraged, Douglas propped his feet up on the desk and hummed a few bars of what sounded suspiciously like _Whatever Lola Wants._

Without glancing up, Martin flicked his pen across the desk at him.

~*~

The rest of the day passed with routine predictability (Douglas goaded and needled Martin until the novelty at last wore off; Arthur attempted lunch, which both Martin and Douglas politely but emphatically declined). End of hours rolled around without any sign of their client.

As Martin was packing his things to head home his phone rang. When the man on the line asked for Icarus Removals Martin nearly dropped the phone in delighted shock.

There was an old antique shop on the edge of town that had seen better days. Apparently, the crew the shop usually hired to deliver items to customers had moved on to more profitable business ventures and had left the shop owner in the lurch. He had contracted deliveries to make and no one to make them. He also made it clear than he couldn’t pay the fees demanded by the last crew. Martin immediately—if a tad desperately—assured him that the fees wouldn’t be a problem (it was more than he made on his jobs usually) and that he would be free to start on the weekend if that was all right. It was and they made arrangements for Saturday afternoon. 

Martin rang off and pocketed his phone with a smile. He still hadn’t had a flight but at least now he had a job coming. That was reassuring. Maybe he could ask Arthur along to help. He had done enough hauling furniture to know it was best to spare his back the agony when he could find another set of hands. Arthur never took much convincing anyway, not if Martin promised to buy lunch. 

Maybe Douglas, all teasing aside, was right and he _had_ managed to suppress his bad luck. Things were looking up. 

He spun his keys round his finger and whistled as he walked out to his van.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

There were a lot of things Martin prepared himself for before he rang the bell at Carolyn’s on Saturday. The dog, for one. If someone didn’t have a handle on her when they opened the door, she attempted to bowl visitors over. She was a bit like a tiny, furry Arthur—too much energy and not nearly enough outlets for it. Arthur, himself, was another. Arthur was a very enthusiastic greeter. Martin was just as likely to end up knocked off his feet by Arthur as he was by the dog.

The very last thing Martin expected when the door finally opened, however, was for Dana to be on the opposite side of it. His mind did him the courtesy of going completely blank as he stood on the steps, just short of gaping.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

He tipped his head in greeting. He couldn’t find his tongue to do anything else. 

The silence stretched between them awkwardly for a moment, even more so when he looked up to find her staring intently back at him, giving him a onceover. Then he remembered what he was wearing (a pair of tatty jeans and a wash-faded t-shirt that had seen better days) and inwardly cringed. God, he probably looked _awful._ At least his uniform hid _something_ , gave him more definition than just skin and bones. His hair was still wet and curling damply behind his ears from this morning’s shower. That persistent itch between his shoulder blades returned with a vengeance and he scuffed his trainers on the steps.

Dana blinked at him. “Wow, sorry. I’m not usually this rude, I swear.” She stepped back to allow him in. 

He followed her through to the kitchen where Carolyn and Arthur were seated at the table in front of an open laptop. Carolyn was looking on with veiled interest while Arthur searched and pecked at the keys. They both glanced up when he and Dana came in and Carolyn raised a quizzical brow at him. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked bluntly. Before Martin could reply, Carolyn waved at dismissive hand at him. “No, don’t bother. I don’t actually care so long as you’re gone within the next ten minutes.”

“Right,” Dana said carefully. “I’ll get the brochures printed and to you soon as I can, Carolyn.” She began to collect loose papers from the tabletop—prints, Martin realised, from the photo shoot. “I’ll just get out of your way. I’m sure you all have important things to discuss.”

“Important?” Carolyn scoffed around her coffee cup. “Martin’s here to steal Arthur away for one of his ridiculous van jobs, I’m sure.”

“Oh, the van job!” Arthur exclaimed. “That was today? I’m sorry, Skip, I forgot!” He scrambled up out of his seat and made a mad dash for the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Just give me a minute, Skip. I’ll be quick, promise!”

Carolyn rolled her eyes and pulled the laptop to her.

Dana fought off a smile. “Van job?”

Martin’s fingers knotted defensively into fists of their own accord. As if he didn’t seem poor enough as it was dressed like a pauper, now she had to know he lived and worked like one too. 

“Just a side job,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. No, it was perfectly normal to have more than one job, especially in this economy. There was no shame in working hard for a living. Not in the least. He forced his shoulders straight and glanced round for any sign of Arthur. 

“Know how that goes,” Dana replied sympathetically. “Every little bit helps.”

Martin barely bit back the sudden bitter laughter that worked its way up his throat. God, if she only knew. 

A second later Arthur came bounding down the stairs, practically tumbling down them as he tried to walk and pull on his shoes at the same time. “I’m really, really sorry, Skip! I should have put it on the wall chart so I remembered.”

“Arthur, it’s fine. Sit down before you crack your head open, will you?”

Arthur grinned sheepishly at him and settled on the bottom steps to do up his laces. 

“So,” Dana said, titling her head curiously to one side. “What do these van jobs of yours entail, Captain?” 

He shifted uneasily again, but before he could think of a suitably vague answer, Arthur happily supplied one for him.

“We go all over and move and deliver things and play games and it’s _brilliant!_ It’s like when we have jobs for GERTI only on the ground!”

“Sounds like a lot of fun.”

“It is! Oh! You should come with us!” Arthur turned pleading eyes on Martin. “Can she come, Skip? She’d be a big help, and you’ve even said, the more people there are on a job the easier it is so—”

“Yes, Arthur,” Martin cut him off. There was _not_ an edge of humiliated panic in his voice. “But I’m sure Dana has better things to do with her day than spend it driving round Fitton with us.”

“In fact,” Carolyn intoned from the kitchen table. “We _all_ have more important things, none of which include any of you loitering in my kitchen. Now, out, the lot of you. I’ve things to do.”

Dana slung her bag over her shoulder and followed Martin into the hall, smothering a smile. “I don’t really have any plans,” she told him quietly. “If you need an extra pair of hands, I’d be happy to help.”

There may not have been an edge of panic in his voice, but Martin could feel the heat blooming across his cheeks. “You don’t have to. It was stupid of Arthur to suggest it, really.”

If anything, her smile only grew wider. “What if I said I _wanted_ to help? Would that make a difference?”

“See, Skip? I told you she’d help.”

Martin ducked his head. “N-no, really it’s…” As if he wasn’t bad-off already, now even virtual strangers were helping him out of pity. Yes, he was doing very well for himself indeed.

“Martin,” Carolyn called from the kitchen, her tone brooking no argument. “Stop being a berk and accept the girl’s help already. Now load yourselves into that ludicrous death trap you call a van and get out.”

Martin flushed right to his hairline.

Arthur finished tying his shoes and jumped to his feet, pumping his fists in the air. “Brilliant!”

~*~

The overwhelming self-pity had nearly vanished when Martin pulled into the antique shop’s long and windy drive, in no small part due to the fact that most of the ride there had been spent in trivial small talk and a game of Yellow Car… which Dana had started. 

He hadn’t meant to stare so blatantly, but turning his head had been reactionary. 

“It’s a game,” she had explained, grinning.

“Y-yes, I know. I… Never mind.”

“Skip is brilliant at Yellow Car,” Arthur had told her proudly from the back seat. 

That had been all it took to put a dent in Martin’s growing discomfort. Maybe this job wouldn’t go as horribly wrong as he had first thought. 

Dana braced a hand on the dash as she leant forward to peer out the windscreen. “Wow,” she breathed, seemingly mesmerized. “That is a _beautiful_ house.”

Martin glanced out at it. The shop was a farmhouse, all old brick and climbing vines with a loose gravel drive that ran behind and down to what had once been the stables. It wasn’t what he would call beautiful precisely, but he supposed it had a quaint charm to it.

“Beautiful shop now,” he said. “Converted the whole thing and crammed it full of antiques. It’s been here for ages.”

She stayed frozen in place even as he and Arthur climbed out of the van.

“Dana,” Arthur called. It sounded far too practiced a reminder for it to be just offhand. 

Dana blinked, startled into motion when she finally realized that she was the only one still in the van and scurried out guiltily. “Sorry, I get caught up sometimes. If I do it again, just give me a kick in the ass and I’ll get back to work.”

Without any sort of preamble, Arthur gave her backside a playful shove with the toe of his shoe. “Like that?”

When she stumbled, Martin fully expected her to round on Arthur. Instead, she choked on a laugh. “Just like that,” she said, dusting off the seat of her jeans. She did up her hair into a sloppy ponytail and shot him a sidelong look. “Y’know, it’s really not fair that your legs are that long.”

Arthur waggled his foot at her, his grin practically splitting his face in two.

Martin started up the drive to the house, wondering what exactly he had got himself into.

~*~

Martin practically collapsed on the van’s rear bumper, feeling the muscles in his arms tremble, and took a minute to catch his breath. 

After struggling up and down three sets of stairs at three separate blocks of flats (why did builders have to design buildings with so many bloody _stairs?_ ) he had long since broken into an unattractive sweat, hair matted annoyingly to his forehead. He tried to finger-comb it back into some semblance of order, at least enough so it was out of his eyes. When that didn’t work, he held his hair down with both hands, attempting to press it into place, but eventually gave it up as a lost cause. 

Arthur flopped down beside him, sweaty and flushed, but grinning from ear to ear. He raked his hands through his hair until it practically stood on end, then closed his eyes and slumped against his knees. A rest seemed like an infinitely good idea. Martin closed his eyes as well and pressed his forehead against the cool paneling of the van.

Arthur let out a startled squawk and Martin jumped when something cold and wet brushed up against the side of his neck. Dana pressed water bottles into both their hands and hopped down from the van, her own water bottle clenched between her teeth. 

“Before we shrivel up and die,” she said, lifting her bottle in a toast.

Arthur returned the salute with a cheery, “To not dying!”

Martin didn’t know what to say so he just nodded and drank. He wasn’t one for staring, not usually—it was terribly rude, after all—but even so he found himself watching Dana as she tipped her head back. His eyes were drawn to column of her throat, the way it flexed when she swallowed, the way her shoulders hitched ever so slightly, the way her chest moved as she breathed…

He blinked. No. No, he should _not_ be noticing those things, certainly not about a relative stranger. She was Arthur’s friend for God’s sake! He shouldn’t be noticing the curve of her hips when she moved, or how sweat had darkened the vee of her t-shirt between her breasts so he could make out the line of her bra. No, definitely not. 

Arthur drained his water and proceeded to break out into a one man percussion band with as little rhythm as actually possible. He rattled his hands against his knees, his water bottle, the side of the van, and tapped one foot to keep the time his hands refused to follow. Dana gave an exaggerated shimmy of her hips—which Martin definitely didn’t notice, not a bit—and pulled a tiny point-and-shoot camera from her back pocket. 

“Work music?” Dana fiddled with the camera, lining up to take a shot of the shop.

“Work’s _always_ better with music,” Arthur said. “Whistle while you work and all that. Oooh, I could do ‘Heigh Ho!’, y’know with the dwarves. They always seemed really happy.”

“It’s a _Disney_ film, Arthur,” Martin said. He nearly swore he heard Dana snort. “Everyone’s happy in Disney films. It’s contractual. And they only sang that when they got off work.”

Arthur froze mid-drum. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would they be happy to get off work if they loved working?”

For a moment, Martin debated whether or not he should even bother with the not-so-subtle differences between real life and animation, but decided against it. An explanation that technical could take hours. 

Dana circled the drive, her attention more focus on her viewfinder than on where she was stepping. “Happy whistle-working ethics aside,” she offered cheerfully. “We’d need another four guys to pull off the whole Disney manual labour thing. Five, if you’re kicking me out for being a girl.”

Martin felt his own lips quirk. “You could be Snow White,” he suggested. Then he realized what he had said and felt like the world’s biggest fool.

Dana slid him an unreadable look. That persistent, nagging itch between his shoulder blades started again. 

“I’d need a Prince Charming first,” she said eventually.

Martin’s stomach fluttered and knotted in not entirely unpleasant way and his face heated. He blamed both on over-exertion and ducked away from her gaze.

Arthur simply beamed. “That’s brilliant actually. It’d be like a real life fairy tale. I bet we could find you a prince.”

Dana’s gaze lingered on Martin for a moment before she turned back to her camera, still smiling. 

Martin propelled himself back to his feet and scrubbed a suddenly restless hand through his hair. “Um, right. Yes, well, we… We should probably get going. Still more deliveries to make.”

Dana snapped one last photo, gave him a jaunty salute and winked. “Yessir!”

Arthur promptly burst into laughter.

Martin wrote off the pleasant tingle under his skin and consulted the list of addresses again. When he climbed into the van he focused single-mindedly on driving and not on the way Dana twisted round in her seat to tease and poke at Arthur.

~*~

The day’s earning sat heavily in Martin’s pocket. He had enough now to make rent and what was left would be enough to restock his bit of the cupboards. If he budgeted it all properly, he might even manage to have bit extra. That was, if it didn’t have to be divvied up three ways. He did a quick calculation in his head and mentally sighed. Not as much as he would have liked, but still more than enough to make ends meet. He’d make do. He always did, somehow or another. 

Arthur practically leapt out of the van as soon as they pulled into the drive and landed in the middle of the grass, wobbling precariously for a second. Dana climbed out rather more sedately, shaking her head. Arthur fished in his pockets for his keys, then stopped and blinked up at Martin, who was still sat behind the wheel. “Are you stuck, Skip?”

“Of course I’m not stuck,” he said. “Um… here.” He dug out his wallet, carefully counted out the money, and held it out to Arthur.

Arthur just stared. “What’s this for?”

“It’s… it’s your share of the earnings. Yours and Dana’s actually.”

Arthur’s brows only rose in confusion. Martin was very tempted to just drop the notes at Arthur’s feet and be done with it. He was really too tired for a more convincing explanation.

So Martin was totally unprepared when Dana curled her fingers around his and started like an idiot at her touch. She simply pushed his hand back at him. 

“I can’t speak for Arthur,” she said. “But I don’t want your money, Martin. You don’t pay for favours. You keep it, okay?” She smiled up at him and gave his hand a gentle squeeze before she let go.

“You can keep mine too, Skip,” Arthur agreed. “I mean, thank you and everything, but…” He shrugged and shook his head.

“Oh,” Martin said, feeling slightly dumbstruck. “Are you sure…?” When Dana waved him off he awkwardly stuffed the notes back in his wallet. “Thank you,” he told them weakly, all the while warring with equal amounts of relief and guilt. He needed every bit he could save, true, but this was effectively cheating people out of hours of hard work and wages that were rightfully theirs. He felt terrible.

“I know that look,” Dana said and he jerked to attention. She waggled a finger at him not unkindly. “You’re not allowed to feel guilty, all right? It’s against the rules.”

As if that settled things, Arthur tossed his keys from hand to hand and said, “I’m starving! How about Chinese?” 

“More like a shower.” Dana plucked at the collar of her shirt. “I have a feeling I’d leave noxious stains on your mother’s furniture like this.” 

Arthur pretended to sniff her and grimaced. “Right. So wash up _then_ eat. Definitely.”

Dana planted a teasing elbow in Arthur’s gut before starting down the drive to her own car. “See you in a bit,” she called with a wave.

Arthur shouted his goodbyes when she drove off, accompanied with enthusiastic arm-flailing that continued well after she’d gone out of sight.

“Skip?” Arthur said after a minute. “Everything all right? Aren’t you going to get cleaned up?”

Martin shook himself and started up the van. “Right. Night, Arthur. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem, Skip.” Arthur beamed. “What should I order?”

“For what?”

“For dinner?”

Martin put the van into gear. “Whatever you’d like, Arthur. You’re the one eating it.”

“It doesn’t have to be Chinese,” Arthur hedged. “I just thought you _liked_ it.”

“I do. But why on earth should that matter?” 

Arthur smiled one of his rare patient smiles. “So the food’s here by the time you get back and we won’t have to wait.”

Oh. _Oh._ Somehow, the notion of being included in Arthur’s plans had never crossed Martin’s mind. But that was exactly what it was. An invitation. 

“I’m really very tired, Arthur,” he said lamely. “And I very much doubt Carolyn wants to see me anymore than she already does.” Besides, Arthur would have Dana to keep him company.

Arthur only shrugged. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Skip. Mum’s gone off with Herc for the weekend. I’ve the house to myself. Come on, it’ll be fun, promise.”

For a full ten seconds, Martin didn’t say a word. Finally, he caved under Arthur’s innocently expectant gaze and sighed. 

“I’m partial to spring rolls and sesame chicken.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

Having a good scrub down and changing into a pair of clean clothes did wonders for making Martin feel marginally human again, but unfortunately neither did anything to settle his nerves. He was inexplicably jittery. By the time he pulled into Carolyn’s drive the muscles in his neck and shoulders were knotted stiff. 

He was being positively stupid. It was dinner with Arthur, for goodness sake. This was something he did on almost a daily basis. So what was dinner with one more person? What could possibly go wrong being in the same room with a woman who he’d stupidly called Snow White and who made him blush at nearly every turn? No, this was just dinner, with friends… God, was she his friend now? Acquaintance? What was he supposed to call her?

The sudden rapping on the driver side window made him nearly jump out of his skin. Dana grinned up at him and stepped back so he could open the door. 

“Heya,” she said, a case of ginger beer tucked under one arm. “You okay? You looked kinda spacey.”

“O-oh, no. No, I’m… I’m fine. T-thank you. Um, here, let me.” He managed to take the case from her without dumping it onto the grass. 

“Such a gentleman. Someone raised you well.”

He tried to keep his laugh light and unaffected. He had a sinking feeling he failed at it miserably.

~*~

Dinner, thankfully, was a rather relaxed affair. They brought everything out into the living room and gathered round the coffee table to eat, Arthur and Martin curled on opposite ends of the sofa and Dana tucked on the floor between them. They passed cartons between them and talked about every absurd thing imaginable. It was rather nice, actually. 

Halfway through dinner the subject of Doctor Who came up and Arthur enthusiastically abandoned his chow mein to hunt to hunt down his DVDs. They worked their way through a handful of episodes, though really they ended up talking and giggling through most of them. Martin chaffed a bit at the faulty aerodynamics and the impracticality of flying a Spitfire in space, but it was Doctor Who, he reasoned. The Doctor could get away with anything he bloody well wanted.

Martin, however, didn’t expect Dana to twist round from her spot on the floor and curiously ask “Why?”

He blinked. “Um, because he’s the Doctor? I don’t think it would be very entertaining if he had to obey the laws of physics like the rest of us.”

She just shook her head and folded her arms on the seat of the sofa. “No, about the aerodynamics. I know about the whole ‘no breathing in space’ thing, but why couldn’t they make the planes super-fast at least?”

Martin was quietly floored. She… she actually wanted to know something about planes?

“Well, yeah,” she said, and belatedly he realized he’d said that last bit out loud. “I don’t get it and you know your stuff. You’re the best person to ask.”

So he went into a stilted explanation about the dynamics and specifications, hands fluttering ineffectually when he tried to describe things and his heart fluttering like a trapped bird behind his ribs. She listened with the same attentiveness she had given Douglas that night at the pub and asked questions when she wasn’t certain of something as though she were clearly interested. Somehow the logistics of space travel in a WWII aircraft turned into the pros and cons of flying for a small charter firm. He still stumbled over his words, but they came easier as the night wore on, and she laughed when he managed to actually get the punch line of a joke right for once. 

Sometime later, he realized he had been dominating the conversation for quite a bit while Dana simply watched him in intently focused silence. Well, studied might have been more accurate, her gaze wandering from his face, down his arms and back up again. Nothing that could have ever been mistaken for less the polite, but even still, his words reacquired their stutter and he shifted a tad self-consciously. Her eyes followed his movements.

Apparently, Arthur noticed from his spot on the opposite end of the sofa and just shook his head. “You’re not even listening anymore, are you? This is where she usually starts pulling people off the street,” he added conspiratorially to Martin. He stretched out one leg and shoved Dana with a naturalness that only came from routine. 

Martin, however, highly doubted the routine was ever supposed to include Dana toppling forward and bracing her hands on his thighs to catch herself.

“Arthur!” she squawked. 

Martin thought it best he didn’t speak at all. Especially not with the way his brain was ever-so helpfully choosing to zero-in on the way her fingers were pressing into his jeans. Instead he swallowed and didn’t dare move.

She scrambled up with a frantic apology and swatted at Arthur, who just leaned back into the cushions and held up a foot to keep her at bay.

“You were doing it again,” he explained, tactfully moving his leg to avoid a blow. “And you gave me permission to kick you today, remember?”

Subdued, she dropped back to the floor, thumping her forehead against the edge of the sofa with a wordless groan. 

Arthur only nudged her shoulder good-naturedly with his toes before he climbed to his feet and started sorting the empty food cartons. “You’re not a creepy stalker,” he said, as though he had said it a hundred times before. “Just ask already.” He piled a teetering stack of dishes, utensils and polystyrene into his arms and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Martin and Dana sat in silence a while, punctuated only by the sound of Arthur doing the washing up. Martin studiously regarded the TV, reading the paused credits over and over until he could recite half of them to himself.

Eventually, Dana stirred, let out a long breath and slipped up onto the cushions beside him, wrapping her arms round her knees.

“I don’t think you’re a creepy stalker either,” Martin said suddenly.

She turned her head to him and blinked.

“N-not that I ever thought you were,” he continued quickly. “I-I just didn’t want you to think that I… I mean, I know you’re not—well, you might be. I don’t think there’s any actual way to tell if someone’s a stalker just by looking at them, but—God, I didn’t mean to imply you were, I was trying to do the exact opposite. I was just… I…”

She was staring at him again, not in any way that seemed offended or as though she thought he might have gone mad. She was just… looking. He tried not to fidget. It wasn’t unpleasant having her attention necessarily, but he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

She sighed. “Aaand I’m doing it again. You now have permission to kick me.”

“W-why would I kick you?”

“I’m not exactly disproving you’re stalker theory.”

“You’re not exactly proving either,” he countered.

For a long drawn-out moment, they held each other's gaze. Martin wasn't entirely sure whose composure cracked first, but despite his best efforts, he snorted inelegantly, and they both disolved into helpless laughter. 

_This is ridiculous,_ he told himself firmly. _You're being absolutely, unabashedly ridiculous._ Scolding himself sober did no good at all, but at least he still had the good sense to clap a hand over his mouth and stifle his giggling, however ineffectually. 

When they had both sufficiently recovered enough to remember how to breathe, Dana straightened and shifted round so she was fully facing him, nearly close enough for her legs to brush against his.

“Arthur’s right,” she said, lips still twitching with the last remnants of suppressed laughter. “It’s stupid of me to just sit here, so this is me sucking it up and asking… Would you be willing to model for me?” 

He stared. His jaw might have unhinged a bit, he couldn’t tell. She wanted him to… No, she couldn’t possibly. _Why?_ Why on earth would she want to take photos of him? He must have misheard her. It was the only possibly explanation. 

She smoothed the wrinkles in her jeans. “I mean, it wouldn’t be anything salacious or tasteless… Wow, you probably weren’t even thinking about that until now. Sorry. But it wouldn’t be. And I’d pay you, obviously. We’d work out a contract and everything, so it’d be totally legit.”

“Oh. No. Um… n-no. That’s…”

She glanced up at him so fast, he was only half-certain he hadn’t imagined it. “Right. Well, just thought I’d ask.” She shifted round again and brushed her hair back behind her ears.

“N-no, I meant yes.” Oh god, he couldn’t believe he was actually going to do this. What was he thinking? Maybe that was the point, he absolutely wasn’t. This was a lapse in his sanity. “W-what I meant to say was, not for money. I…I don’t want to be paid. It wouldn’t be fair, not when you spent your day hauling furniture for me. You don’t pay for favours.”

Dana broke into the brightest smile he had seen all night. His stomach somersaulted and a quiet voice in the back of his head kept whispering that he was completely off his nut. Despite that, it was impossible not to return her smile. Sod it, sanity was overrated anyway. 

The rattle of dinnerware announced Arthur’s presence causing Martin to straighten guiltily—over what Martin hadn't the slightest, he hadn’t been _doing_ anything. 

Arthur deposited a tray of ice cream sundaes on the table, scooped up one of the bowls for himself and flopped onto the sofa. “So,” he said around his spoon. “Photos now or later?”

Dana rolled her eyes, budged up to avoid being squashed under Arthur’s legs and unpaused the DVD. “Sorry, can’t hear you over Doctor Who and your ice cream-y mumbles.”

When Arthur popped his spoon out of his mouth Dana dialed the volume up on the TV.

The sofa wasn’t exactly roomy enough for three grown adults, even less so when some time later Arthur decided to sprawl starfish-like across the cushions. Dana shifted and Martin moved to accommodate her, effectively pinning himself against the armrest. Their shoulders brushed and every so often their knees bumped together. When she glanced over, he smiled at her over his spoon and found that he didn’t mind the lack of personal space at all.

~*~

By the time the last DVD ended and Martin finally glanced at the clock on the mantle it had gone half-one in the morning. Arthur was passed out on his half of the sofa (which had increasingly become three-fourths as the night had worn on) and Dana was far closer to Martin than when they had started out. Martin knew he probably should have offered to move a long while ago, given her his spot on the sofa so they weren’t crammed together like sardines, but…

It had been so long since he had been physically close to someone outside of MJN or his family (on the infrequent visits he saw any of them) that sitting with her pressed against his side was… nice. Incredibly nice, in fact. Comfortable. Companionable. 

Had he been the sort of man to make bold moves he might have stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. Had he been the sort of man with an abundance of confidence he might have even ventured to put his back against the armrest and pull her into his arms. 

But he wasn’t either of those things, so when she moved to remote the TV off, he made himself as small as he could to give her room. 

Across the sofa, Arthur snored.

“Sign of a night well spent,” Dana said, her voice only just above a whisper, and arched her back. It gave a series of audible pops, but Martin was more interested in the way the manoeuvre curved her spine and set her shoulders back to be as put off as he should have been. “Should we wake him up?”

Martin shook his head. “Leave him. He’ll want a long goodbye and it’s late.” 

“Good point.” 

Together though, they got Arthur lying flat and threw the afghan from the back of the sofa over him. When Dana kissed his cheek and whispered good night, Arthur hummed contentedly in his sleep. 

They left the light in the entryway on ( _“I know it’s his own house,” Dana said. “But with his luck he’d break his neck getting up the stairs in the dark.”_ ) and made certain the front door locked behind them. 

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Martin blurted.

Somehow he must have managed to sound less idiotic than he thought because all she said was, “If it weren’t for the accent, I’d say you’re a real Southern gentleman.”

“Well, I grew up in Wokingham if that counts for anything.”

They shared a quiet laugh which petered off into an uncertain silence when they stopped in front of Dana’s car. This wasn’t exactly familiar territory for Martin—this wasn’t a date and he hadn’t had any female friends since he was a child…

“Well,” he said, quelling the urge to fidget. “It was…um…”

“Can I have your phone number?” When the only thing he did was blink, she clarified, “That way you can give me a call whenever you’re not busy jetting all over the world and we could do those photos. If you still want to,” she added quickly. “If you don’t that’s fine too.”

“Oh, n-no, that’s… I do, I mean...” He rattled off his number and added hers to his contacts with silent astonishment and clumsy fingers.

Dana unlocked the driver’s side door and propped it open against her hip. “Y’know, if you ever need any help with anything, I’d be willing to lend a hand, two even.” She waggled her fingers at him. “I had fun today.” 

He wanted to tell her that if lugging other people’s belongings around was her idea of fun then she seriously needed to reevaluate her standards, but before he could, she leant up and brushed her lips over his cheek.

“Good night,” she told him quietly.

He returned the sentiment, but wasn’t entirely certain if he managed the actual words or just mangled sounds. Either way, she smiled sweetly at him as she slid behind the wheel and gave him a tiny wave when she drove off.

When Martin climbed into the van, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. The smile on his face was positively moronic and he didn’t care one bit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

Mid-week found Martin alone in the portacabin in the early hours of the morning filing pre-flight paperwork as usual. Coming in early before a flight gave him a chance to relax and let him quietly revel in the fact that he was doing what he had always wanted to, where he could smile and hum and be ridiculously happy away from any prying eyes. It gave him a chance to daydream without worrying about being caught.

Not that any of his daydreams were particularly embarrassing per se, but they were private and it was the principle of the matter. Truth be told, they were all silly, really. Finally receiving a salary, maybe even working for a proper airline. Moving out of Parkside Terrace and getting his own flat—one where no one stomped up the stairs at three in the morning, where he didn’t have to jury-rig the light fixtures or the plumbing every other week, and where he didn’t have to share a single thing. They weren’t the most extravagant wishes, he knew, but where was the practicality in wishing to win the lottery? He would never manage that. A flat of his own and a salary, those were at least doable. Theoretically. 

There was something else, though, that had preoccupied his thoughts recently, a nameless little whim that jangled his nerves. It was stupid to think that one quick kiss had been anything more than a friendly good night, he knew that. It was an entirely unfounded notion at best. A preposterous, baseless fancy. He and Dana, they were… friends. Yes, that was safe enough, he supposed.

Friends, however, didn’t hope for more, even dimly. Friends were content being just that. Friends didn’t wonder, even in passing, what it would be like to kiss her, soft and sweet and unhurried. Friends didn’t wonder how it would feel to wrap his arms around her and just be close…

He scrubbed his hands over his face. Stupid, all of it, incredibly so. He just thought, possibly, if he just _tried_ , then maybe… It wasn’t totally inconceivable for him to have a chance, was it? He knew he wasn’t going to win any prizes for looks or for job prospects, but… He was a decent person. That had to count from something, didn’t it?

Of course it did. Just not with her. They were friends.

He signed off another document, leaving his signature carved out and bleeding at the bottom of the page.

God, he was pathetic.

He eyed the stack of paperwork in front of him and sighed. It was too early to be this self-deprecating. He needed coffee.

~*~

He had settled into a nice, mindless rhythm after his first cup of coffee. Sign and initial, lay aside, repeat. By his second cup, he had actually managed to salvage what had been a perfectly good mood. That was something, at least. By the time he finished off the last of the paperwork he felt markedly better and actually found himself looking forward to this afternoon’s flight. He really did have to stop dwelling on nagging, little worries. They never did him any good and he was genuinely sick of being miserable. 

The knock at the door was quiet. He was ready to call out a _“Good morning”_ when he remembered neither Carolyn nor Arthur would ever have reason to knock. The door opened slowly and Dana peeked around the frame.

Martin froze like a man caught out.

“Hey, you,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Carolyn in yet?”

Words. Right, he needed to speak. “Uh… no. Just… just me. Early morning paperwork.” Oh hell, what was wrong with him? He took a deep breath, steeled himself. “Is there something I can help you with? Maybe?”

She fished out a plump envelope from her bag and crossed the room to hand it to him with a shy, little smile. “Just thought I’d drop these off before class.” 

Something in her tone urged him to open it. Carefully, he slid out a glossy pamphlet from the stack inside, the cover embossed with MJN’s logo. He unfolded it, recognizing the typeset words Douglas, Arthur, and he had spent one long afternoon labouring over. He paused when he turned to the back and stared. The photo was of him and Douglas in the flight deck, all sunset-dark, headsets on and hands poised over GERTI’s controls. The caption read: _Captain and his first officer, reviewing pre-flight checks._

“Well,” she prompted quietly. “What do you think?”

He ran his thumb slowly over the caption and found the corners of his lips curling. “It’s… wonderful,” he breathed. “If we show these to potential customers, they might actually believe MJN’s a legitimate company.” When he glanced up, she was positively glowing. He ignored his stomach’s flip-flopping and slid the brochure back into the envelope.

“Do you always come in to work this early?” she asked, settling herself on the edge of the desk.

He placed the brochures aside and set about straightening his paperwork. “Most times. Easier to get things done that way. I… like the quiet.”

She hummed in agreement. “Only real chance you get to cherish the silence,” she said wistfully. “There isn’t ever enough of it.”

Bit by bit he could slowly feel the tension drain from his shoulders. “There really isn’t, is there?”

While Martin tucked away his logbooks, Dana gazed out the window at the empty car park and leisurely kicked her legs. Right, he should… what, exactly? Small talk wasn’t exactly his forte. Coffee. He could do coffee, yes. He crossed the room and popped the kettle on.

“I can do you a coffee, if you’d like. Or tea… if I can find it.” He rooted around in the cupboard until he found a semi-crushed box of Twinings lodged in the back. “Aha! Tea’s on the menu.”

“I’ll have tea then,” she said, as he pulled down a pair of mugs. “Arthur’s made me coffee here before. But whatever it actually was _coffee_ was a loose description.”

“But it _does_ have caffeine in it so…”

“If that’s your only reason, take caffeine pills. They’re probably safer.” 

He set about fixing their drinks, the simple routine of preparing tea settling his nerves. By the time the kettle boiled he was feeling almost himself.

“You sure you don’t sideline as a professional tea maker too?” she asked lightly when he handed her mug to her.

“Just piloting and deliveries for me, I’m afraid.” 

She smiled up at him over the lip of her mug. They both fell silent, content to drink their tea and exchange furtive, pleasant glances. 

“If I had known you’re were all alone,” Dana said after a while, “I would have brought you something decent to drink. Not that you make crappy tea or anything, just…” She trailed off and waved a hand vaguely.

He was about to thank her—the offer was very kind, but really she didn’t have to think about; he was so used to the taste that it barely phased him anymore—but before he could reply, she glanced up, froze for a stunned second, then abandoned her tea to hunt through her bag. 

“Don’t move, okay?” She retrieved her mobile and hopped off the desk. “Can you lift your chin just a bit? Like you’re looking over the top of my head… Perfect. Stay just like that.”

If she had asked him to stand on his head, he didn’t think he would have been able to refuse. There was something about the way the camera dominated her attention that held him still, something about how it narrowed her focus and seemed to crowd out every other thought. It showed in her face, in the way her eyes lit up and the way her smile deepened. But more than any of that, it was her unbridled enthusiasm, the sense that for one moment everything aligned just as it should and it was _perfect._ He wondered fleetingly if he looked the same every time he taxied GERTI out onto the runway. 

She beamed as she regarded her phone, then straightened as if struck by sudden inspiration and pushed her phone into his hand. He caught a glimpse of ginger curls on the screen before she turned back and settled his cap on his head. Soft, gentle fingers skimmed across his temples and forehead, straightening his hair and sending tiny, shivering pinpricks down his spine.

Grinning, she took back her mobile and snapped a photo. “Much better,” she said, turning the screen to him. “Not complete without the hat.”

He was gripped with the sudden, almost-overwhelming urge to kiss her. Instead, he offered her a watery smile and swallowed down the impulse. 

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice (or if she did, she didn’t let on, and he wasn’t sure it that was better or worse). She scrolled happily through her phone and from the screen’s angle he could see she was designating the photo as his ID in her contacts. That annoying itch between his shoulder blades started up again and shifted as discreetly as he could. 

A moment later her face fell and she let out a weary breath. “How legitimate an excuse is, ‘Sorry, I can’t come in today because if I do I think my students will find a way to kill me with their minds?’”

His thoughts derailed completely. “What?”

“Art projects,” she explained. “Collecting the last one, assigning a new one. They don’t want to do them, I don’t want to grade them. They don’t seem to understand that teaching is actually a mutual suffering.”

He snorted rather ineloquently trying to smother a laugh. “However do you cope?”

“Mostly by chanting _We Are The Champions_ in my head.” 

Despite their best efforts, they both dissolved into a fit of giggles, which didn’t stop until they staunchly refused to look at one another and they could breathe again.

“I should probably go,” she said with exagerated reluctance. “I don’t want to delay my intellectual homicide any longer than I have to. Don’t want to disappoint the children, after all.”

Etiquette dictated he show her to the door. He turned when he felt her hand on his sleeve… and froze when his lips brushed hers. There was two seconds of startled silence before Dana rocked back on her heels and burst out laughing. Martin’s face flamed, hot and quick across his cheeks. 

“I… I…” The flush steadily crept its way down his neck. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. His brain refused to cooperate with his mouth long enough to form a proper sentence. What was there _to_ say? “I… I’m sorry… I-I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” she told him, suppressing blithe amusement. She curled her fingers round his wrist and gently squeezed. “It’s a lot better than knocking our heads together.”

He didn’t trust himself with words so he just nodded and tried to will away the heat still blooming on his face. 

“Tell everybody I said ‘hi’,” she said, her fingers still lingering on his. “And I will see you when I see you. Okay?”

He didn’t quite manage actual words, but the mangled sounds he made must have been convincing enough. She squeezed his wrist one last time and waved to him as she went out to her car.

He closed the door after she had gone and slumped against it, the back of his head connecting with a dull _thunk._ “God,” he groaned, rakings his hands through his hair. “Why am I such an idiot?”

~*~

By the time Carolyn and Arthur arrived, he had more or less recovered from his humiliation. By the time Douglas arrived, he had pushed the thought out of his mind altogether. He was rather proud of the fact he managed to play that one so close to the chest. Douglas not having something embarrassing to lord over him made the flight almost enjoyable. (Of course, having Miami as their destination may have helped a bit in that regard as well.)

When they landed, Carolyn thrust instructions to the hotel at him as soon as they stepped into the terminal. 

“Are we to take it you won’t be joining us?” Douglas drawled.

“You’re losing your touch if you need to obvious pointed out to you,” she replied. 

“And just where is it you’ll be staying?”

Carolyn arched a warning brow at him. “I don’t see how that matters to you at all, since it won’t be where you’re staying.”

“Won’t it?”

“Indeed it won’t,” she said. “You see, useless pilots such as yourselves, stay in places much the same. It preserves the status quo. Whereas owners such as myself use old connections to procure a flat with an ocean front view.” She paused only long enough then to hand the expenses card over the Martin, with strict instructions that he was not to let Douglas so much as _look_ at it on pain of death. 

Which, of course, meant Douglas _had_ to follow Martin the length of the entire airport as though they were attached at the hip.

“Do you ever get tired of being this exasperating?” Martin grumbled as they waited for a taxi. “It must be terribly exhausting for you.” Despite only being out in the open air for a handful of minutes, he could already feel sweat beading on his forehead. He missed the air-conditioning already. 

“Nowhere near as exhausting as it must be for you to stay wound so tight,” Douglas replied easily, seemingly unaffected by the heat. “Honestly, Martin, it’s only a bit of fun. And with you in charge of the money, I’m just finding the cheapest way to entertain myself.”

“By harassing me?”

Douglas flashed him a toothy smile. “If I actually wanted to harass you, Martin, you wouldn’t have lasted at MJN a week.”

Martin just rolled his eyes. “Somehow I don’t doubt that.” He paused. “Wait. You’re not telling me _you’re_ the reason the other pilots—” 

“Oh, look a taxi.”

~*~

Arthur spent the whole taxi ride extolling the virtues of dolphins (and other various sea creatures, but the book he’d picked up mainly focused on dolphins). Since, Martin didn’t want to hear about how dolphins birthed their young or their dietary habits, Douglas made sure that Arthur described every facet in pain-staking detail. Martin wasn’t generally prone to violence, but by the time they arrived at the hotel, he was seriously weighing the option of gagging Arthur versus maiming Douglas. He was reasonably certain he could make the flight back to Fitton alone. 

He grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache building behind his eyes. It was the pain talking, that was all.

Arthur bounded into their room as soon as Martin opened the door and dove for a bed he had to know he wasn’t possibly sleeping in that night. “Do you think we can see them, Skip? Do you think they’ll be awake with it still being light out and everything?”

Martin threw his bag on the bed beside Arthur and blinked. He had lost track of Arthur’s monologue a good fifteen minutes ago. “See what?”

“Otters!” Arthur chirped. “Because they live in the sea and there’s a Sea World here so it makes sense that that’s where they would be. But if they’re not awake now, it doesn’t make any sense to go and see them when we won’t actually be able to see them because they’re sleeping.”

Martin shucked his uniform jacket as he tried to digest that. “Sea World’s in Orlando, I think,” he said, after a moment. “That’s hours away.”

Arthur visibly deflated. “Oh. Right.”

“But,” Martin added quickly, “I don’t think otters are nocturnal, so if we _did_ see them they would be awake.”

As he did with all things, Douglas saved the day by tossing Arthur his phone. “Miami may not have Sea World, but I’m fairly sure they have some kind of aquatic entertainment.”

Sufficiently placated, Arthur busied himself with browsing the web. Douglas had no compunctions about getting undressed in front of people, but Martin ducked into the bathroom, if only out of habit. The AC in the hotel was anemic at best and combined with the sweltering heat, he was already beginning to sweat through his shirt. He had never thought he would ever so readily exchange his uniform for civvies. 

By the time he had finished, Douglas had already changed and Arthur was flopped back across his bed, Douglas’s phone held above his head. Angry Birds apparently took precedence over hunting down the nearest aquarium.

“Your phone buzzed, Skip,” Arthur said, without looking at him. The birds squawked and Arthur wriggled in triumphant delight as he decimated the pigs’ shelter. 

Martin spared Douglas a look—who only shrugged—and flipped open his phone to find a text message waiting for him.

_Text from Dana Darby:  
I survived._

He automatically scrolled back to his phone’s main screen and accessed his inbox again. No, he hadn’t imagined it. The text was still in his messages, checked as read, and its sender quite clearly displayed. He glanced back at Douglas and Arthur, who weren’t paying him any attention at all, and sat on the edge of his bed to type out a quick reply.

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Happy to hear it. Wish I could say the same._

Her reply came faster than he thought it would.

_Text from Dana Darby:  
What’s wrong? Bad Trip?_

_Text to Dana Darby:  
In Miami. It’s a metropolitan sauna._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
Aw. You just need to a chance to enjoy the sun, sand, and beautiful women. ;)_

The emoticon gave him pause—not because he was entirely unfamiliar with it, but because he pictured her expression instantly. He tapped out a response automatically and hit _send_ before he could think better of it.

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Not much chance of that._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
You clearly underestimate your own charm, Captain._

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. So he chose to ignore it and explain.

_Text to Dana Darby:  
It’s 32 degrees. In the shade. Substitute grime for sand. And the only woman I’ve seen so far is the one who checked us in. She is neither beautiful nor young. I think she might have survived the Stone Age._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
Poor thing. Sing some Queen, you’ll be fine._

“What are you giggling about?” Douglas called. 

Martin did his level best to wipe the smile from his face and waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, his lips still quirking despite his best efforts. “Not important.”

“Come on then,” Douglas said, nudging Arthur up from the end of the bed. “If I have to suffer through a night on this torture device of a mattress, I’m at least going to do it with a decent meal in me. Joining us, Martin?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, but didn’t move. 

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Have to go. Douglas wants food. Arthur wants to find otters._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
I sense a story. Have fun. Ttyl. X_

His insides fluttered pleasantly. He knew what the “x” stood for, but his brain quickly supplied him with a hundred reasons why it couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it did. _I bet she signs all her texts that way. Or it was a typo. Yes, typo, definitely._

Had he been alone, he was fairly sure he would have stared at his phone for a good ten minutes before he even considered moving. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that luxury.

“You all right, Skip? You look all happy and… woozy.”

Martin shook himself and pocketed his phone. “I’m fine,” he said with far more conviction than he felt. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

Douglas gave him a pointed look as he passed, one brow arched inquiringly. This time round Martin was the one who indulged all of Arthur’s trivia and questions. The less silence there was the better. It bought Martin time to think and subdued Douglas’s inevitable prying.

~*~

True to his word, Douglas found the cheapest way to entertain himself, and by extension Martin and Arthur. There were a series of free outdoor concerts going on in one of the county parks. The three of them spent hours wandering from venue to venue, milling aimlessly through the crowds and getting caught up in the music. 

By the time they stopped to rest, commandeering a park bench before it was snatched, the sky was streaked purple with twilight. Martin’s feet ached and he was fairly sure when he woke up tomorrow his ears would still be ringing, but he wasn’t having a horrible time. Arthur paused only long enough to make sure neither he nor Douglas planned on moving before dashing off to watch yet another band set up their equipment. 

The prying when it came was subtle. Nearly a whole night of seeming disinterest on Douglas’s part had lulled Martin into a false sense of security. 

“As progressive as society today seems to be I don’t think marriage to inanimate objects has been legalized quite yet.”

Martin jerked round to stare at him. “What?”

Douglas spread his arms comfortably along the back of the bench. “You’ve been sneaking glances and fondling your phone ever since we left the hotel. Are you sure the two of you don’t need a moment to yourselves?”

Rather belatedly, Martin realized he was cradling his mobile in his palms, thumbs absently caressing the screen.

“My watch is broken,” he said stiffly and shoved his phone back in his pocket. “I was just… checking the time.”

“Ah. So you’re just wearing it out of habit then?” Douglas nodded at his wrist where his watch was currently ticking out the seconds and completely dashing his attempt at misdirection. Douglas smirked. “Seems in perfect working order to me. Must have caught its second wind.”

Martin pointedly refused to look at him. Instead, he focused on Arthur, who had somehow managed to get roped into hauling amplifiers up onto the stage. 

Lack of eye contact, though, was never a deterrent for Douglas. “Does this mysterious she have a name?”

The stiffening of his spine was a dead giveaway, but Martin couldn’t help it. Still, he made sure he kept his voice even and airy. “What makes you think holding my phone has anything to do with a girl?”

“All right then, who’s the lucky _boy?_ ”

Martin whipped back round indignantly. “I-It’s _not_ a boy!” he snapped and realized a second too late he had just stepped into a trap. 

Douglas smiled like the cat who had got the cream.

“It’s none of your business,” Martin said quickly, hoping to head off the teasing before it began.

“Even so, you know I’ll wheedle it out of you sooner or later.”

“Why… why does it have to be someone? I… I could have been… checking the weather or-or, um… e-expecting a call from a client.”

“True,” Douglas conceded easily. “However I’ve never known you to wear such an idiotic smile while waiting for a job. You’re usually somewhere between antsy and high-strung Chihuahua. Today, I must say, your… _anticipation_ has been nearly Arthur-ish in proportion. As there are only so many things in the world which set Sir all aflutter, it was simple a process of elimination.”

“Yes, well… Maybe you’re wrong.”

“And yet I don’t think I am. Let’s have it already.”

“So you can continue to mock me? Thank you, but no.”

Douglas only shrugged. “Oh, I’ll mock you either way. I just don’t see why you shouldn’t at least be happy while I do it.”

Martin sighed. “You’re not going to let up, are you?”

“What do you think, Sir?”

Martin momentarily deliberated whether holding out any longer was actually worth it. He didn’t _have_ to tell Douglas anything. He also wouldn’t find a peaceful moment until he did. 

Giving in wasn’t a surrender, it was strategic concession. Somehow, telling himself that didn’t make him feel any better. “She… She texted me. This afternoon, before we left the hotel, and I… I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. It was… It was…”

“A pleasant surprise? So I gathered. You’ve been smiling all day like you’ve been lobotomized. It’s nauseating.” Martin bristled, but Douglas waved him off before he could say a thing. “So how did you embarrass yourself into her good graces? Spill your drink on her in a pub? Run her over with your van?”

“Oh, hah bloody hah, and none of the above.” At Douglas’s prompting look, Martin ducked his head and twisted his fingers together in his lap. When he finally spoke his voice was smaller than he would have liked. “It’s… it’s Dana.”

Douglas blinked. “The photographer?”

Martin nodded wordlessly and stared at the tops of his shoes, bracing himself for unavoidable teasing. 

Only the teasing never came. Douglas’s smile turned sly and Martin started when Douglas clapped him firmly on the back. “Ah, yes. Well done.” 

“I… Wait, what?”

“The signs of an interested woman are numerous and varied—glad to know you finally caught on, at least. You can be painfully oblivious sometimes.”

“I-I am _not_ oblivious! You thought she was dating _Arthur!_ ”

“Dating someone doesn’t necessarily stop you from being interested in someone else. She had eyes for you, my lad.” Douglas paused and slid Martin a sidelong look. “You haven’t asked her, have you?”

Apparently, Martin’s silence was answer enough. 

“Oh, Martin…” Douglas sighed. “The worst thing that could happen is she says no.” 

Martin knew. That was precisely what he was afraid of.

“She won’t though.”

When Martin turned to gape at him, however, Douglas’s attention was focused on the park. 

“Oh, dear. Arthur’s tangled himself in the lighting. Best sort that before MJN gets charged with destruction of private property.” With that, Douglas sauntered off to help the band extricate a rather animated Arthur from a snare of thick and probably highly-electrical wires. 

Martin sat for a moment in stunned silence. Before he could convince himself not to, he pulled out his mobile and tapped out a quick text.

 _Text to Dana Darby:  
I survived._

Then he remembered the time difference. He was in the process of berating himself for being an utterly incompetent fool when his phone trilled out an alert.

_Text from Dana Darby:  
I knew you would. Sleep tight, O Captain, my Captain. X_

This time, Martin had the luxury of being alone. He sat staring at his phone until Douglas and Arthur came to collect him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has never particularly liked being in front of a camera, but then again, he has never particularly liked the person behind the camera either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2505231#cmt2505231).

For the next month Carolyn booked as many flights as she could legally cram back to back. Martin ended up having to reschedule his deliveries for the antique shop (and offer to do the job for half the previously arranged fee as compensation for the delay). The number of flights also meant that when he wasn’t flying, he was sleeping, trying to recover for the next flight. Finding free time was like chasing dream-shadows. Which meant he didn’t get to see Dana. At all. 

It took him aback how absolutely disappointing that was. It wasn’t as though they had ever set a time to meet, so he wasn’t rescinding on a commitment (not like his van jobs—that still left a bad taste in his mouth, abandoning actual work so he could _play_ at being Captain… No. That didn’t merit thinking. Dwelling on that too much would only set him on edge and he was too tired to adjust his mood around the others accordingly). But… he _wanted_ to see her. Just for a minute. Of course, MJN’s rigorous scheduling didn’t allow it, so instead whenever he could manage to find a spare minute, he worked up enough nerve to text her.

When he actually stopped to think on it, their texts weren’t anything particularly substantial, just trivial things about how their respective days were going—she asked after his flights; he asked after her classes—but there was something about the simplistic honesty in those few shared words that Martin found himself looking forward to them every day.

Douglas, of course, teased Martin unmercifully about it, quipping about his amorous advances towards his phone. Martin staunchly refused to dignify any of Douglas’s comments with a response. Carolyn had nothing to say so long as it didn’t get in the way of him doing his job. When Arthur found out, he just grinned and asked Martin to tell Dana he said “hi!” enthusiastic wave and all. Martin did, and when he opened up Dana’s reply, he found a photo of her waving and a cheery _“Hi, from home! X”_ at the bottom of the text.

That started a new routine. Every stop Martin would take a picture of wherever MJN had landed—sometimes Arthur or Douglas, or even Carolyn would be in it; other times it would just be of a sign post. Regardless, every day Martin would send a photo and every day he would get a reply and a corresponding picture from somewhere in Fitton, always signed, _“Hi, from home! X”_

One night, as he was settling down for bed, his mobile rang—properly rang, not just chirped out a text alert. He was so surprised—actual calls happened so infrequently—he didn’t even bother checking the ID and answered with a cautious, “Hello?”

“Did I time this right?” Dana asked on the other end of the line. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

Floored, Martin dropped down onto the edge of his mattress. “N-no. No. You… were right. Not asleep at all.”

Across the room, Douglas groaned out a muffled “Speak for yourself,” and tossed round on his bed until he managed to drag his pillow over his head.

Martin took that as his cue, clicked the bedside lamp off and retreated into the en suite, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“Sorry,” he said. “It was a long day and Arthur was the only in-flight entertainment.”

Dana made a sad, little noise. “Why didn’t you just say so? We can talk later. I was just calling to say good night really.”

“It’s fine,” he told her quickly—too quick, maybe, desperately so. “Absolutely… just fine.”

He wriggled his toes against the cold porcelain tiles and debated whether he should stand or sit—he tended to pace while he was on the phone and the bathroom wasn’t precisely roomy. The sink was too high to sit on comfortably and the toilet—no. Just no. He couldn’t carry on a conversation like… that. He settled for sitting on the lip of the tub and propped his elbows on his knees.

“It’s… it’s nice to hear your voice,” he said.

“It’s nice to hear yours too.”

Behind closed doors, Martin saw no reason to hide his smile.

~*~

Martin only realized how long they had spent on the phone when he crept out of the en suite to find the hotel room painted grey with hazy morning light. He spared a glance at the clock as he crawled under the duvet… He’d be fine. He had run on far less sleep before (and for things only half as satisfying). Just before sleep came, he wondered faintly how he was ever going to manage his phone bill.

~*~

During the day (or relatively so) they sent each other silly other silly photos and pointless texts. At night (or just before bed for one of them, at least), they would ring one another to say good night. Or, rather, that was always the intention. Their phone calls, more often than not, ended hours later, with sleepy words and barely stifled yawns. 

Martin had never before found sleep deprivation so rewarding. 

~*~

The house was gloriously quiet when Martin got back from MJN’s last booking, the kind of empty silence that signified the only ones in residence were the ghosts in the pipes and Martin himself. Of course, it wouldn’t last long, it never did—the students would come trampling back in heaps of tangled limbs and too-loud voices, the happily-slurred proclamations of a weekend well started heavy on their tongues. Martin didn’t know whether he hated Friday nights or coveted them (God, was it really Friday? Back to back flights made him lose track of the days). After all, if he could manage to weather the drunken revelry that would inevitably ensue downstairs, it meant a relatively quiet rest of the weekend while the students recovered from their stupendous hangovers. It wasn’t exactly a prized trade-off, but it was something. 

No, it wasn’t all bad, really. He could tune the radio to whatever station he pleased, he could talk to himself and sing at the top of his lungs and dance with all the coordination of some knobby-kneed colt without the fear of appraising sidelong looks. He could take a shower just as long and hot as he wanted…

He didn’t end up doing any of that, of course. Living with other people for so long had squashed all that kind of indulgence right out of him, and if nothing else, consideration had been bred into his bones by his parents long ago. ( _“You’re not the only one under this roof, Marty. You’ve got manners, and you’ll use them.”_ ) He had never been the rebellious type. Simon and Caitlin had cornered the market on that growing up. Not that he minded or even wished he could have followed in their misguided, adolescent footsteps. It would have just got in the way of his revising anyway.

He took a shower, only moderately longer and hotter than his usual, flipped on the radio just loud enough so it burbled in the background, hummed softly to himself and swayed on his feet while he made himself what he considered a well-deserved cuppa.

His mobile buzzed and rattled against the kitchen table just as the kettle came to a boil. He reached for it with one hand, flipped it open and tucked it between his shoulder and chin, so he could alternately root in the fridge for milk and pull down a mug from the cupboards. 

“Hello?” he answered, shutting the fridge with his foot. 

“Hello, yourself,” Dana said. “You sound cheery.”

His lips pulled themselves into a slow, wide smile. “I’m making tea.”

“Ah. Well then, that explains everything. How was Brussels?”

“Not as awful as I thought it would be,” he said, settling down at the table and reaching for the sugar bowl. “Whatever Douglas managed to smuggle through customs this time didn’t get us arrested and having to visit every single _chocolaterie_ within the city limits with Arthur wasn’t exactly a bad way to spend our stopover.”

“So you spent the day sampling gourmet chocolates, while I had to settle for a stale bit of Milk Tray.” She hummed a little discontented noise and Martin couldn’t help but laugh. “I think I may hate you just a little bit, y’know.”

He knew it was ridiculous to place a hand over his heart when she couldn’t even see it, but he couldn’t help himself. “Had I known you were suffering like that, I would have never touched a single piece.” 

“Oh, don’t you dare. It’s _gourmet chocolate_. Someone needs to enjoy it. I’ll just… enjoy the experience vicariously.”

“You’ll… taste chocolate vicariously? How does that even work?”

“Well,” she said, dragging the word out slyly. “Mostly, it’s a bit of determination and a _lot_ of imagination.”

Martin was suddenly glad his tea wasn’t yet cool enough to drink because he was fairly sure if it had been he would have choked on it. His imagination was entirely too quick and overeager (embarrassingly so) to provide him with scenarios that were wildly inappropriate to think about, especially when one was currently on the phone with the woman prominently featuring in those scenarios.

“Martin?” Dana said. “You still there?”

He shook himself, feeling his cheeks flame, and cleared his throat a tad self-consciously. “Y-yes, sorry. Still here.”

Dana’s reply, however, was lost in the sudden racket exploding from the front hall, the pounding of heavy-soled boots, squeaky trainers and the raucous laughter of boys still on the high of their latest pub crawl. 

Martin sighed. He hated Friday nights, after all.

“God,” Dana said, raising her voice enough to be heard. “You okay? It sounds like a herd of elephants over there.”

“Housemates,” Martin clarified. “But close enough. Just a minute.”

Billy wove into the kitchen, listing to one side, as though his drooping blonde spikes of hair were choosing the direction. He was swinging a case of beer from one hand and flashed Martin a sloppy smile. “Hey-o, Marty. How’s tricks?” 

“Everything’s fine,” Martin told Billy, pointedly flashing his mobile at him. 

Billy’s pursed his lips into an understanding “o,” eyes widening owlishly behind his glasses. He wobbled round the kitchen as quietly as he had through the front hall—though his exaggeratedly slow movements told Martin he was trying to be quiet. Even so, Billy still ended up banging around blearily and giggling under his breath. Josh and Alec stumbled in not long after, grocery bags tucked under their arms. 

Martin couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes pleadingly towards the ceiling. Apparently his plans for a pleasant lie-in and a night of good conversation were going to be dashed in favor of keeping a careful eye out to make sure the boys didn’t burn the house down when they inevitably decided to try their hands at drunken cooking.

“Sounds like a madhouse.” Martin could hear the sympathetic wince in Dana’s voice. “You must _love_ your housemates.” 

Martin turned his back for some semblance of privacy, but he wasn’t particularly worried about the boys overhearing. They were too busy fumbling round the cupboards and generally making more racket than it should have been possible for three people to make.

“They’re not all that bad,” he said.

Josh chose that moment to drag out every pot and pan and drop the entire pile of them onto the worktop with a resounding clang. Billy and Alec flinched, hushing him in with too-loud whispers, and gestured frantically at Martin.

“You sure you don’t need somewhere to escape to?” Dana asked.

Behind him, the boys shoved at each other as they attempted to sort through the shopping. 

Martin leant his forehead against the wall. “I’d better not,” he told her resignedly. “It’s not that they aren't perfectly capable adults but…”

“But you’d like the house to still be in one piece when you get up in the morning?” she finished. 

“Exactly.” He took a deep, calming breath. “I’ll… Can I call you back?”

“Of course. Just don’t kill anyone.”

He rang off with a quick goodbye just in time to snag the grocery bags before all of the shopping ended up on the floor.

~*~

By two in the morning the house was once again blissfully quiet. The boys were passed out in the sitting room in some rather creative places (Alec had draped himself along the back of the sofa in such a way that it was only a matter of time before he wound up on the floor), the kitchen look like it had been hit by a bomb, but the only sounds were the snoring of three stupendously pissed college students and the creak of the house as it settled.

Martin collapsed face down on his mattress with a tired groan. Too exhausted to move any more than he absolutely had to, he flung out an arm and groped blindly at his bedside table until his fingers closed over his mobile. He turned just enough so his face wasn’t mashed into his pillow and tapped out a text with one hand. 

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Just letting you know, I didn’t kill anyone._

He wasn’t honestly expecting a reply. Texting at all ungodly hours was becoming something of a norm between them. He only realized he was nodding off when the phone vibrated against his palm and he jerked awake. 

_Text from Dana Darby:  
You are the epitome of self-restraint. I’m very proud. ;)_

His phone buzzed again before he could even consider a reply.

_Text from Dana Darby:  
You busy tomorrow?_

He dragged himself over and onto his back, settled himself as comfortably as he was able and rubbed the sleep from his eyes so he could see the keyboard properly. 

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Van job in the morning. Rest of the afternoon free._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
Perfect. Call me when you’re done?_

There was no need for any sort of deliberation because there was only one logical response.

_Text to Dana Darby:  
Alright. Ttyl. Good night._

_Text from Dana Darby:  
Sleep tight. X_

Martin deposited his phone back on the table and flicked off the light, drowsy contentment settling bone-deep. His dreams, when he finally drifted off, weren’t of flying, but of pedestrian routine and shared laughter, and he found that being grounded wasn’t so very terrifying after all. 

~*~

Waiting, however, Martin decided, was nerve-wracking. It gave him far too much time to think, which inevitably lead to analyzing every possible way things could go wrong. He hadn’t expected more than a good chat when he had phoned Dana after he had finished up his deliveries. So, when she had asked him to meet at one of the coffee shops on the high street, he had been more or less blindsided. No, not blindsided—that implied inconvenience and reluctance, and it was neither of those things. There was anxiety coiling in his chest and knotting tight, thrumming through his veins until it prickled like electricity under his skin. It was unbridled excitement at the prospect of seeing her, and choking apprehension that when he did he would make a complete idiot of himself.

He took a fortifying breath and curled his hands round his drink. If he expected something to go wrong, something most assuredly would. Positive thinking was the key here. All he needed to do was relax and everything would be fine.

He fiddled with the collar of his shirt and wondered if he had underdressed. 

Dana hadn’t explicitly said what to wear—of course she hadn’t, she wasn’t his mother—but if she was planning to take photos she would want him to be at least semi-presentable… wouldn’t she? He wasn’t entirely certain what _“Whatever you’re comfortable in”_ entailed. Comfort was relative, after all. Some people would feel perfectly content wearing a burlap sack—well, maybe not a burlap sack, per se, but one person’s casual could very well be another’s formal…

“You’re deep in thought. Plotting world domination?” a cheery voice said at his elbow and he nearly upended his coffee.

Dana curled a hand around his arm, laughing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Oh, no,” he said, “only a few minutes.” He gave her a weak smile, but didn’t quite manage to meet her eyes. He tried not to concentrate too closely on the feeling of her fingers on his skin. 

Before he could think of anything else, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, soft fingers skimming along the back of his neck. For a split-second, he froze, slightly overwhelmed by the wonderfully heady mix of vanilla and spiced flowers, before he laid hesitant hands across the small of her back.

“It’s really good to see you,” she told him quietly, and he suppressed a shiver as her breath skated hotly over his ear.

“It’s good to see you too.” The response was automatic, pulled from polite memory, his mouth functioning wholly independent from his brain, which was still lagging a half-second behind.

When she pulled back, she was positively beaming.

His heart gave an elated little flutter behind his ribs and for just an instant he allowed himself to think that maybe _he_ was the reason she was smiling.

~*~

They spent much of the afternoon just wandering around Fitton, chatting easily about anything at all, like a stream of consciousness, even when the change of topic made no sense whatsoever. Occasionally and without warning, Dana would swing her camera up and snap a picture of him, often mid-sentence. He couldn’t possibly imagine how any of those instances merited keeping, but she seemed content enough with each of them, and he wasn’t going to question her methods. Eventually, she took to stopping every so often, without missing a beat in their conversation, and directed him with sure, deft hands precisely how she wanted. He ought to have felt indignant about being manoeuvred round like some shop window dummy, but he couldn’t find it in him to even protest.

“I amazed no one’s ever snatched you up before,” she said as they turned down the path towards Brinkley Chase. “You are absolute model material.”

He covered his initial stumbling disbelief with a rather ineloquent snort. “I very much doubt I’d meet the height requirements.”

“Not runway,” she told him, nudging him with a teasing elbow. “Magazine. You can manipulate height in a photo.”

Tittering laughter worked its way up his throat and died a moment later when he realized she was regarding him completely straight-faced. 

“You’re actually serious,” he said, confounded.

“About the modeling? Yeah, you’re gorgeous.”

He managed to cover up the falter in his steps by clumsily kicking a wayward rock from the path. Of course, he wasn’t gorgeous. He was well-aware of what he saw staring back at him in the mirror every morning, painfully so. Untamable and appallingly ginger corkscrew curls. Long, horsey face with all sorts of horrible angles. A body built like a boy just the wrong side of lanky and always two shades off from being emaciated. He was the furthest thing from what modern society would ever consider even passingly attractive. She just was being kind. That’s what friends did, wasn’t it? Walked and talked and enjoyed each other’s company, paid one another breezy, off-handed compliments—ones that didn’t necessarily need to have a ring of truth to them at all. All that really mattered was that you were willing to say it.

He had his eyes so firmly pinned on the path directly before him that he very nearly stumbled into her when she stopped in front of him.

“You don’t believe me at all, do you?”

Before he could even think to say a word, she lifted a hand, skimming her fingertip delicately across one eyebrow all the way to his temple, and he was suddenly all too-aware of how close she was.

“Arched brows,” she said, as she carefully traced the other. “Almond-shaped eyes—clear, crisp blue. Contacts can’t replicate it without coming across as artificial.” As she spoke, her fingers moved, thumb cresting over his cheek, her gaze following their progress. He fought the urge to close his eyes and lean into her touch. “Straight nose. High, prominent cheekbones.” Her hand slipped lower, fingers just brushing along the side of his neck, thumb sliding along the length of his jaw until it rested just under his bottom lip. “Strong jawline. Sharply defined cupid’s bow. Tapered chin. Attractive features all on their own. Together they’re stunning.”

God, he wanted to kiss her.

If this were a film, he would pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless (oh god, how long had it been since he had kissed someone?) He would be dashing and handsome and know exactly the right thing to say… Only this wasn’t film and he wasn’t any of those things. Not even a bit. But oh, he still wanted… Maybe, just maybe…

Her hand slipped from his jaw, and when she smiled hesitantly up at him he could almost feel the moment slip through his fingers and shatter at his feet.

“You okay?” she asked. 

He straightened, resolutely pulling himself together and cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said, the lie tumbling awkwardly from his tongue. “Fine. Just fine. Um… a bit peaky, is all. Haven’t eaten since this morning.” 

“Why didn’t you say something? Come on, whatever you want. My treat.”

 _It’s not charity_ , he told himself determinedly, as he fell into step beside her. _She’s just being kind._

~*~

It was dusk by the time they finally left the pub. Having a stomach full of warm food and cold beer did wonders for Martin’s mood and he mentally noted that maybe a little mundane extravagance was deserved once in a while—then again, that was easily said when it wasn’t his money being spent. Not that there was anything wrong in having a woman pay for things—the notion that they couldn't or shouldn't was outdated and altogether laughable—but footing the bill by choice rather than necessity was what really made the argument. Indulging in things he knew he couldn’t afford didn’t sit well with him at the best of times. Having someone else pay for those indulgences… Being indebted sprang to mind—and he always made a point of not owing anyone anything—but you weren’t ever indebted to friends. That would unbalance the relationship so it wasn’t any sort of friendship at all. 

He was being stupid, he knew, overanalysing and being deeply critical. Some things just had to be taken at face value. 

They wandered back to the footpaths where they had taken most of the afternoon's photos, Dana fiddling and readjusting her camera, occasionally listing into his side when she became too caught up in the screen rather than the direction the path was pointed in. For a second her arm would brush against his, then she would right herself—almost as if using him as a point of reference—and continue on until it happened again. 

She took a handful of photos as they walked, more leisurely this time, as interested in him as she was in the scenery around them. He was just as content to let her, her single-minded focus lending itself to a surprisingly not uncomfortable silence. The less he had to say, the less he had to think about, the better.

She drifted into his side again and at their brief contact he thought he felt her shiver. He glanced over and noticed finally how she had her arms pulled as close as she could while still holding her camera, elbows tucked tightly against her sides, her shoulders slightly curled. The air was refreshingly cool and just a tad crisp, the last lingering vestiges of spring still clinging on—not cold, by any means. At least, not when one was currently bundled in a leather bomber jacket (a Christmas gift from his family and the only good jacket he owned).

She was wearing one of those diaphanous, flouncy Springtime blouses that while appealing to look at, did next to nothing to provide any warmth. Here they were trekking all over nowhere, while she froze and he walked along side like a berk and didn’t notice at all.

“Are you cold?” he ventured, overshooting subtlety by a mile. 

As if his words were a reminder, she shivered again. “I’m fine,” she said, shrugging her arms closer and dropping her eyes back to her camera. “Stupid. Should’ve remembered to bring a sweater.”

Martin had no delusions about being gallant. She was cold. He had a jacket. It the end it was all pragmatism.

She paused when he settled his jacket around her shoulders, blinking up at him, and Martin risked a small, apprehensive smile. 

“You didn’t have to,” she said, even as she sank her chin into the fur that lined the collar.

Martin affected his best nonchalant shrug. “I know.”

Eventually, she shuffled beneath the jacket, murmuring a quiet “thank you” and threaded her arms through the sleeves. Martin found himself oddly struck by the way the jacket nearly engulfed her, the way she had to tilt her wrists just so to keep the sleeves from pooling and slipping down over her hands. That anything he owned was too overlarge for someone else to wear properly was bizarre… and strangely arresting. 

He gave himself a rough mental shake before he stared too blatantly, folded his arms over his chest—it was a bit chilly—and started down the path again. Without a word, she fell into step beside him. He watched her sink into folds of the jacket out of the corner of his eye, watched her reach up a hand to tug the collar close, and did his best to ignore how irrationally pleased it made him. When he felt her hand on his arm, he stopped and stilled, well-used to the routine by now and fully anticipating the sound of the camera shutter.

So he didn’t move when she stepped in front of him and smoothed a hand across one of his shoulders, didn’t move when her fingers rested against his neck and she raised herself up on her toes. 

He most certainly didn’t move when she tilted her head up and pressed her lips to his. 

The kiss was soft and sweetly chaste and over far too soon, leaving him leaning into empty space before his brain managed to catch up. 

Her words were more an exhale of breath than a whisper, so quiet he almost didn’t catch them. “I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”

“Have you?” he asked haltingly.

She had her head tucked down so he couldn’t see her face, but she still had her fingers resting against his neck, her thumb ghosting along his collarbone.

“Wasn’t very professional of me, was it?” she said.

Keeping himself from melting into her touch took every conscious effort and with his brain so preoccupied words tumbled his lips unchecked. “I… I never signed a contract so technically, it’s not work.”

She pulled away just enough to look up at him. “So, it would be okay if I did this…?”

He leant into the kiss this time, unfolding his arms and wrapping them round her waist to pull her closer. She hummed out a pleased little sound, sliding one hand up to curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other braced against his chest. The kiss was tentative, delicate, and the first brush of her tongue against his sent sparks through him. It was instinct more than anything that drove him to deepen the kiss, to splay his palms over her back and press her flush against him. He was rewarded with her twining her arms round his neck and carding her fingers through his hair.

They parted eventually, flushed and a tad breathless. Martin was more than a little reluctant to let her go and was slightly astonished when he absolutely didn’t. Instead he only loosened his grip, comfortably settling his hands in the small of her back. When she slipped her arms round his waist and rested her forehead against his chest a moment later, he found holding her to be every bit as gratifying and thrilling as kissing her had been.

So he wasn’t entirely sure what prompted him to shatter such a perfect moment by opening his mouth and asking, “Since this isn’t work, I don’t suppose you’d want to go out sometime? With me?”

She glanced up at him and smiled coyly. “What was today then?” Before he could answer, she continued, “It depends.”

He swallowed dryly. “Oh? What on?”

She raised herself on her toes, lips brushing over the shell of his ear, and whispered, “Do I get to bring my camera?”

He was still laughing when she drew him into another kiss. She smiled against his lips and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear the telltale click of the camera shutter go off beside them.


End file.
